


Fire & Brimstone

by nigellecter, YouDroppedYourForgiveness



Series: Abandonment Requires Expectation (Lost and Found) [1]
Category: Charlie Countryman (2013), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bottom Hannibal, Bottom Nigel, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Hannibal is Hannibal, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, M/M, Murder, Pre-Canon(Nbc Hannibal), Reunion Sex, Rimming, Rutting, Top Hannibal, Top Nigel, Twincest, Two Major Assholes Duking it Out, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 01:24:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 46
Words: 80,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6544747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nigellecter/pseuds/nigellecter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouDroppedYourForgiveness/pseuds/YouDroppedYourForgiveness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nigel abandons Hannibal when they had been in the orphanage, Hannibal leaves Nigel to go to the States to attend Johns Hopkins. A reunion ensues after nineteen years. Will their relationship take the turn and be mended as it was supposed and meant to be?<br/>a roleplay between dr--hanniballecter and nigellecter.<br/>Hannibal / Nigel. Mistakes are our own.</p><p>-DISCONTINUED-</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sitting in his office, at his desk, Hannibal makes a few last minute observations  in his notebook. His last appointment for the day left just ten minutes ago it was now 8:40pm. In his way of winding down for the day, he sits back in his chair and enters his memory palace. Every day he focuses a little bit of time into expanding the vast halls. It’s there that he can hear the haunting laughter and pitter-patter of tiny feet as they echo down corridors. Mischa haunts him day and night, and he welcomes the sound of her voice now, as he follows silently. His dearly departed sister stays the same as she was the day she died. Innocent, and beautiful like Ophelia taken from this world much too soon. His twin on the other hand is easy to recreate. He imagines that he looks fairly the same as he did the last time they saw each other nearly twenty years ago. Being identical he expected him to look the same as himself. Coming out of his memory palace, not much time has pasted in reality. It was time to go home and make dinner, he had everything planned out in his head. This therapy session had been particularly banal and he allowed one train of thought to orchestrate what he would make, while his patient droned on about their miserable life.

Closing the door to the Bentley, he makes his way inside, unlocking the door, his coat goes on a coat rack to the left. He turns on the lights as he walks through the house, keys in hand. In the dining room his keys go on a little hook with other keys set into the wall. Slipping off his suit jacket, he places it on the back of the chair at the head of table. Everything has a place, he is all about order, and is meticulous about making sure everything is as he left it. Faintly he is aware that he is being watched. This does not bother him, and he goes about his business as usual. It’s in his kitchen that he smells the distinct odor of cigarettes. Someone has been in his house, and they would pay for that. Smoking was as offensive as it got.  _ How dare they come into my domain, and think they could get away with bringing that stench with them?  _ Letting them think he doesn’t know a thing, he rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt. No point disrupting his plans over some intruder. Taking and apron of a peg on the wall, he swiftly ties it about his waist, and starts calculating strategies. He preferred to be ready for anything, and while he was making dinner he also had different trains of thought going as to how he’d dispatch the offender.

_ Lung a la basquase _ was on the menu for the night. He cleaned up as he went, so that there was minimal work to do before sitting down to eat. Unrolling his sleeves, he moved everything back to it’s original spot, and tidies his appearance. Whisking off his apron he opened a metal panel in the wall near the dining room entryway. It was to a laundry hamper just for kitchen linens. There was a hidden throwing knife concealed inside the panel, just for such occasions. He stealthily slips the slender blade into his the sleeve of his shirt. Taking his plate into the dining room, he sets it down on the white plate already waiting for him. His suit jacket is put back on, and he pours himself a glass of wine, all before pulling his chair out, and taking a seat. The wine he lets breath, and cheerfully a beautiful melody plays in his head. He was confidant that whoever was waiting for him would be more surprised that he was expecting them. With a fork poised halfway to his lips, he paused, head tilted ever so slightly to the side. When his brother stepped out of the shadows he almost did a double take. That he was not expecting, and certainly changed things. Lowering his utensil, a smiling twitched at the corner of his mouth. “Hello Nigel, it’s good to see you after so long.” Taking a sip of wine he surveyed his twin with a careful eye. The outfit he wore was atrocious and an eye-sore. “Why ever are you dressed like a European Slum Lord, it’s beneath you.” 

____

He could still taste the lingering crimson floating in silence, the reverberating recoil still felt between the curled fingers, more like talons digging through the flesh of the other as he rips them through sinews and ligaments. The whooshing of the cloying adrenaline matching the faint push of the bullet, the pressurized air takes nanoseconds to penetrate into the thick skull of the man who owed him a lot. He would ultimately and unwillingly pay everything with the only thing he has left;  _ his life _ . The silence is so wise, appropriate and inviting warmth spreads from the gunpowder-coated fingertips. The faint, smoky trail and an almost imperceptible burn of the skin, it signifies another life cut short by his execution. Unnerving and scenting the amalgamation of the scents with a hint of smirk behind the penetrative hazel, green specks become acid-coated daggers as he relishes the collapse of the other in a series of snapshots. The predator need not know when the prey drops dead in a heap for him to be triumphant. As much as he savors the moment just after dipping inside the caressing touch of the crimson, there’s sacred appreciation over the vitality. The one he himself had jeopardized by taking the plunge into this very profession. Now taking a break from his long, grueling work schedule to take on a long excursion, the dream unfurls in a plangent ripples as the turbulence from the current en route to New York had him nauseated with something else. The air Hannibal would sure breath in the continent he never had stepped upon for a long time. He knew European streets,  _ Paris _ ,  _ Budapest _ ,  _ Milan _ , you name it, he had been there for ‘business’ trips and it was his innate ground, where his whole existence had been shaped. 

The very atmosphere proves different as he steps onto the platform of the JFK International Airport, along with one of his associates confirming his arrival and getting everything he had requested. A key to a storage unit, with every necessity he had required before making the overseas trip without a return ticket. The club would be fine under Darko’s iron fist, he could exact the same thing when the renovation completes for a franchise to stand tall in the old place that had been gutted to the core. That will give him enough time to splurge and be a hot stuff like he had been back where he considered his second home to be. Along with the keys and the brand-new sporty and streamlined bike fit for his gaudy yellow Adidas, gold chains and silver cuff-clad frame, he scrunches his nose, pushing the sunglasses up his forehead as he raises a curious eyebrow, with his signature tilt of his face in observance. “You found out about my brother, where he lives. I told you Baltimore, that’s where he got his fucking  _ medical degree _ .” Miserably failing to contain his antipathy as words drawl with contrariety, a scowl gleams behind the shaded lenses, mounting the motorcycle like he would an untamed mustang. “And I speculate you already have forged the keys, or at least a valid means for me to breach into his residence without detection.” Through thinned lips, he mutters an appreciative remark and takes off like a bullet train. The whole time, he contemplates why the European roads can’t be like those fucking Turnpike and I-95 with broad-ass roads without too much of a traffic, just hours before the rush hour near Philadelphia loop that would be horrendous. 

He doesn’t even have to look at the scrap of paper, shoved inside his back pocket to know the address by heart.  _ 5 Chandler Square, Baltimore, MD 21201, United States _ . After retrieving everything he needs, just his usual appurtenances and objects of addiction;  _ a revolver, packs of cigarettes, a Versace suit, a pair of shined oxfords along with few changes of clothes that would only last him a few days along with withdrawn cash from his floating account _ . With purpose and intention, he snoops around the grounds of the mansion before confirming there had been no inhabitant currently exhibiting the space. Feeling like he had both penetrated and wrongfully invaded (he was trespassing and breaking into someone’s house, after all) the enclave and the mind palace of his aloof and estranged twin, after Slipping inside like a slithering viper, he waits patiently until the subject of his confrontation arrives. Pinching his brows in the stark difference of aestheticism and tastes in furniture, he watches a broader, Grecian figure moving about with not a movement wasted. Standing under the slanting shadow of the twilight beaming through the back glass door, the cigarette smoke thickly permeates the air as his Nike barely squeaks against the impeccably polished wood floor. The state-of-the-art kitchen becomes the stage for Hannibal’s grand performance, through the viscera and he ponders if that individual,  _ a doppelganger  _ from his past is indeed his own blood. “I wished I could really throw you a curve, aren’t you a fucking needle in a haystack. A diamond sparkling out of all the cookie-cutter townhouses made out of coal.” Another cigarette perched, he stands with the crawling strip of light as a backdrop. “A fucking shame that you partake in being an epicurean granny vampire above all the things I have expected you to have become.”    


	2. Chapter 2

After recovering from his shock of seeing his twin in his own house after so long, he tilts his head to the side and finished his action of taking a bite of food. He wipes his mouth on the cloth napkin near at hand and inquires. “Do join me for dinner, I made enough for two. While I had no idea it would be you dining with me. Please refrain from smoking in my domicile, the smell is quite offensive..” Pushing his chair back, he stands and pushes his chair in, before sweeping a hand out to the side. He motions for Nigel to follow him, his face unreadable. “I assure you, that you’ve successfully threw me a curve ball showing up here.” His mind always working in double time strays across the thought of why his brother would show up now after so long. Leaving Nigel into the kitchen on the right, he begins to prepare him his own plate. “And I had come to expect you to be dead, with no news from you, and your precarious lifestyle…” In truth he is glad to see that his only remaining blood relative from his immediate family is still alive. Whatever bad footing they parted upon those many years ago, left an open wound on his heart, that could not easily be healed. He had come to the states on an internship to Johns Hopkins Medical Center. Even though he had requested Nigel to come with him, he had stubbornly refused. It never sat well leaving his last tie to his family behind.

Carrying a palate laden with food for his guest, he heads back into the dining room, and setting the plate down, he pulls out a chair for his brother. “Tonight is Lung a la basquaise with a side of rice pilaf. So tell me, Nigel what brings you to this side of the world?” He wasn’t one to beat around the bush, and preferred to ask outright the things he wished to know. People will either answer, lie or avoid it, and he was a fairly good judge as to whether they were lying to him or not. Before taking his seat, he pours his younger twin a glass of wine, then unbuttons his suit jacket and takes up his seat again. He mourned the fact that his food had gone slightly cold, during his interruption. It had been so long since they spoke, that he didn’t remember his brother being so rude. “Has it really been almost 20 years since we last spoke?” He took up his wine glass smelling the different notes, or the liquor, before taking a sip. The dish was braised lung, with onions, bell peppers, and plum tomatoes. He knew exactly how long it had been since they last saw one another. He had it calculated down to the minutes, and was now just making small talk. It had been 6,935 days, 227 months, 990 weeks, 166,440 hours, and 9,986,400 minutes.

As much as he tried to hide his concern for his brothers well being he couldn’t help but to inquire after him. “Do you have somewhere to stay? You must know, that I plan to ask you to stay with me here, for however long it is that you’re visiting.” Unlike most people he didn’t form attachments easily, nor did he generally miss things or others. Nigel was different, he was more than his flesh and blood, he was also the last link he shared with his beloved Mischa. He had failed to keep his darling sister safe from harm, and in a way had lost his twin also. Now he felt this was a chance being opened up for him. So he could somehow gain back some of those many years that they had lost. He listen to the unrefined way his brother talked, and his patience was wearing thin at all the profanity. If it had been anyone else, he would not have batted an eyelash at dispatching them with the blade he had hidden in his sleeve. The only thing that kept him from striking him down now, was the love he still had for his kin. As they ate dinner he listen to his sibling with keen interest. “I myself just recently started up my own psychiatric practice here in Baltimore, what have you being doing with yourself?”      

____

Underneath his flamboyant yellow tracksuit, a thin film of sweat encircles around the white, threadbare shirt that clings tight around his form like a second layer of skin. He knew it would be hard to provoke or get any visible emotion drawn out from the aloof twin, but he hadn’t expected as if nothing had happened. Usually, with his dominant and raptorial demeanor, people always took his presence with life-threatening seriousness. There might be a contradictory thought present underneath what seems to be impenetrable shell, more like an invisible veil. He wasn’t above his emotions subdued nor repressing enough for the other to not make out exactly what he had been pondering about. Hannibal went to the States to attend Johns Hopkins, but he straightly went to School of Hard Knocks and had gone through hell and all to get to the place where he had eventually become a criminal mastermind along with his lifelong partner, Darko. Even before the older twin hits him up with the regard of smoking inside the house, his lit cigarette dances in the scissoring motion between his fingers, furthering the invasion and encroachment. He doesn’t have to ask a banal question to register that the kitchen had been one of the places the other placed a high regard, almost a sanctum-like, his cloister to retreat from the hectic life full of quotidian routines. Aware of his presence or not, the other had been in his element, just like how he had been inside his office where stench of nicotine and rusty scent of putrefying blood seeped out like some kind of noxious fume from the secret doorway leading to a back room, where his not-so clandestine activities continued without any interruption. Through the soundproof and narrow corridor leading away from the main area of the club, only the futile anguished screams would fill his ear like the most sonorous serenade ringing through his eardrums. 

Quietly following like a stalking predator, he power-smokes through the second cigarette, the faint scent from the first still lingers in the expanse of the kitchen. Like a phantasm of their difficult past. “I’ll consider that as a fucking delightful greeting.” Leaning against the stainless center island, his thinned lips stretch to curl upward in a forced grin. Then, he extinguishes the cigarette against it and feels a strange sereneness and eeriness resonate through the surface. Another table, custom-made for sure with the inappropriateness, stands out like a sore thumb. Certainly an abnormal choice of furniture, but their whole lives had been nothing like smooth sailing and they’re the epitome of following the norm, as the course of their life took turns for the worse and had met many dead ends and abrupt turns. It came as no surprise that besides their identical visages, they literally had nothing in common when it comes to shared interests. Raising an eyebrow as an amused grin spreads his lower face, he pulls the sleeves of his jacket up to the crook of his elbow before tilting his head to the side. “Someone who was a fucking mute for so long, you sure don’t shut the fuck up.” Of course, besides from visible physical changes, making him the lighter and leaner one out of the two and penchant for debauchery, he would surely be more capricious and temperamental one out of the two. “A long-deserved off-time from my work. Apparently America equates to tie your fucking face in association, so had to check if your damn ass had been doing fine after all those years.” Behind the impassive mien and halfheartedness of his usual low, heavily accented voice, there’s a subtle hint of yearning; for their shared experiences, coveted desires towards the other.        

Having endured horrendous airplane food and going through long periods of having his stomach emptied, he eats like a starved child. The ravenous appetite returning as he scoops a hefty portion to be shoved inside, he ungracefully washes it all down with a chug of wine, without savoring its subtle underlying flavor notes. “Nineteen fucking years.” He mumbles his words through, swallowing the morsels without properly chewing. “When I decided to have one of my own breach your house, that had been my outright thought, where else would I fucking stay? It’s not like I bought myself a return ticket back to Bucharest.” A thought from the past unfurls to become clearer as if it had been projected in front of him through the screen, like a slideshow of something that had been kept under wraps. Mischa had always preferred the bookworm and intellectual oldest brother over the mischievous and restless younger one. Although genuine familial affection and longing for her had surfaced throughout those years as thoughts over the one sitting across him did as well, the interdependent relationship didn’t stretch deep to a degree as Hannibal and Mischa’s had been with each other. “Why a sudden switch of profession, is it because you place fault in yourself for not being able to save Mischa like you should have, or perhaps the blood coating your fingers much too reminisce of the traumatic experience.” Instead of providing his reply about the progression of his own life, he eggs on. “Would you have done the fucking same if it had been me,  _ not Mischa _ ?”     


	3. Chapter 3

Taking note that Nigel evades his question he waits patiently for him to finish talking. His impassive face giving nothing away to how he really feels. He finished his meal, and folded his napkin neatly in his lap. There were certain things he would only forgive from his sibling, but even his twin could go too far. The mention of Mischa instantly sets his blood to chill in his veins. Coolly he replied “I couldn’t save everyone as an emergency room surgeon. When I lost someone, and it happened one too many times, I made the switch.” He did not like to lie, and felt that honesty was key, and he had no reason to lie to his brother. Nigel was possibly one of the few people alive who knew him from childhood. His twin knew one weakness of his, and using their little sister as a means of provocation was a low blow. The his face twitched with irritation, normally when angered or annoyed he showed no outward indication, he didn’t like to show others that they were getting a response out of him. “Despite the long absence of you from my life, you of all people should know that I would do anything for you. Just as I would have for our sister.” For now he ignored the fact that Nigel accused him of not saving Mischa. If his brother didn’t know how it haunted him every day, then he wasn’t about to tell him.

Getting up, he cleared their plates from the table. Taking them into the kitchen, he removed the slender blade from his sleeve before Nigel entered the kitchen. He placed it neatly on the counter next to the sink near at hand. Removing his suit jacket and rolling up his sleeves, he rinsed the dishes off before putting them in the dishwasher and turned it on. Drying his hands on a white towel he turned around to face Nigel. All genial pleasantries done with, his eyes now adopted a cold dead look, like turning a switch on and off. He let his twin peek behind the curtain that was his well tailored person suit. “Why are you really here Nigel? It took you so very long to come looking for your dear brother. I sense an ulterior motive behind this visit.” He couldn’t relax and continue their reunion until he had the truth of it. It would eat at him until he knew, and he wanted to get it out of the way now. He would like to have given his brother the benefit of the doubt, but after god knows how many years of a criminal lifestyle. He had to wonder, was it money, did he want something from him, or was it something darker.

“Do you owe someone money?” What he really wanted right now was to sit in the den by the fire and reacquaint himself with his twin, drinking expensive scotch and reminiscing. Instead he was here standing in the kitchen mentally preparing himself for the worst. He could sense a fight happening, his brother had always been quick to anger and was always looking for a fight. Things could get ugly very fast. He started assessing the situation his mind and body automatically going into Chesapeake ripper mode. With his back to the sink the blade he laid there was on his right just at hand. Nigel was just under three yards away standing on the other side of the island in the middle of the kitchen. He knew for a fact that he carried a gun on the small of his back. He himself detested guns, they lacked intimacy, and preferred a much more hands on approach. The telltale signs were all there. Heavy smoker, heavy drinker, but still in good shape for their age. There was very little chance that Nigel had any formal martial art training, but he didn’t rule out street fighting. Calculating the odds of winning a fight against him, he’d guess at least a 90% chance of besting his younger sibling. The truth of the matter was simple, he would only attack if provoked first. Otherwise he’d rather talk things out. He didn’t want to have to kill his dear brother, after just meeting up again after 19 years.

___

Not even blinking a wink as he had been accustomed to Hannibal’s aloof demeanor, he presses the napkin harder against his thinned lips, tightly shut as he tugs in his chin inward. Pushing away the stubborn lock poking over the corner of his right eye, a subtle pinch of the bridge of his nose confirms his bubbling annoyance and frustration. “That has got to be the most fucking lame excuse I’ve ever heard. What about fatally wounded patients? They’re not your fucking fault to begin with and you’re not what you consider to be, all pedagogic and smart ass. You ought to know better than that.” Slouching against the back of the chair to let the weight of the gun press against the small of his back, he shoves down the last clump of food down as the side of the fork scrapes harshly against the plate. “So instead of fucking up with the body, you muddle up patients’ mind to cause disarray of clutterfuck.” His wavering, but transfixed and unblinking hazel searing against the older twin’s face with such intensity, the fuel inside of him kindles the noxious gas and molten rock inside him, threatening to push through his larynx, worse than Vesuvius ravaging through Pompeii. Fingers curling around the handle of the utensil as fingers tremble with visible outwardly anger, he scoffs, fuming as his vessel turns into the Brazen Bull, the inward screams turning into battle cry, acting like an apparatus that converted the agony into something entirely productive. 

“Mischa, our dearest Mischa, where the fuck were you when she had trailed you like a moth to a lamp? And let’s not forget it’s you who left, despite leaving you abandoned in the orphanage, I fucking came back for you while you were warming your own fucking ass in the States.” Perhaps it had been long pent-up enviousness, that both Hannibal and Mischa had been more affectionate with each other and how their sister looked up to the oldest one more than he had been; standing out like a sore thumb or an itch they can’t scratch. His existence a vastation that shook up the Lecter household. He wasn’t completely above the respect and high regard and value that their last name held, by the valences of things expected, brought up the rear of his older twin. However he had been a venturesome individual that would incapacitate many who didn’t get on his feet - they were to veer between the Scylla of his upfront wrath and the Charybdis of his agility; but also to then remember to be armed to counter a hit themselves, as his revolver would already have done the needless talking. As he chucks off the Adidas jacket along with the sunglasses perched inside the front pocket, his hand brushing the outline of the warm barrel, aligned with divot of his spine. “I was finally thinking to manifest my lifelong scheme to track down those damned motherfuckers who killed our parents to see to an end. I have enough ears to the ground to hunt them down and ravenously thirsty enough to drink their fucking blood if I have to.” He didn’t need to explicate the his not-so-enigmatic motivation to cross the ocean, along with, searching for his long-estranged brother. 

Huffing an exhale, the tip of his tongue presses against the back of his lower teeth, nothing equanimity about his aggressive demeanor. His chin tucked in, the chords stand out as veins throb with entrenched and profound irascibility. A half-smile twists his lips as he rolls his eyes. “Must you be so fucking artless? Why the fuck would I need money? I don’t splurge on furniture supposedly more fitting in antiquity museums than in somebody’s house or dress myself in one of those fancy tablecloths and curtains in undead granny’s house.” Arms akimbo and his fingers hovering over the trigger of his fully-loaded gun, the firearm itself feels heavy within his grip as he sharply enters Hannibal’s personal space with his typically long stride, exuding smugness and confidence. Closing the distance just enough to scent the lingering fragrance of the meal and wine they had been drinking, along with the almost invisible ectoplasm of smoke still clinging around like the bitter grudge of their past, his eyebrows draw taut, lowered along with squinting eyes. “At least I have done something fruitful, what the fuck have you done all these years? You’ve been mute for several years, wouldn’t even speak or fend off those fucking bullies when you had a goddamn chance. Only thing you’ve done was to to lament the unforgivable by deflecting your interest somewhere else, pretending nothing had ever happened. Burying in the ashes wouldn’t mend what we fucking deserved in the first place.” Although he has no intention to discharge, the muzzle points straight to where Hannibal’s heart would be, where he feels a disconnect between the heart and brain. Perhaps his own had been unwired for so long, without the confrontation minus the substances or sheer animosity such as this. 


	4. Chapter 4

“Please forgive me for assuming.” he calmly stated to his brother, while keeping an eye trained closely on the gun being waved around. He lets Nigel speak his peace, and get it all off of his chest. His twin did not know the whole story and he was being irrational now. He accepted that his brother was still angry, he himself was still after all this years, but they approached problems in completely different ways. The rage and pain, seeped from Nigel’s pores like water through a filler. Hannibal had gone so long without caring about anyone else, and his twin was on the other side of the world. He didn’t realize just how cold and detached he had become. For such a long time he felt like he needed no one else, and closed himself off to others. Being close to his brother in this moment sent a crack through the ice around his heart, like broken glass. Deep down he knew that Nigel was still holding a grudge against him for leaving, and he could understand the need to avenge their family. The only difference was for he himself, was he had that closure, and had hunted down Mischa’s killers one by one and killed them. He eat a little piece of each of them, and it carried on with him here to Baltimore.

On their last meeting they left on rocky footing, Nigel had begged him to stay in Europe, and he had refused. In turn he had asked his brother to come with him to the united states, but he was stubborn and also refused. That left them at a stalemate, neither one willing to give in to the other. “I assure you I have been extremely busy and productive in the past 19 years.” He pursed his lips, trying to settle his nerves. His brother was being unspeakably rude, and if he had been anyone else, he would have just killed him outright at the way he was talking. With all these accusations being thrown around, he was startled at how well he was handling it. It seemed that Nigel still held a special place in his heart and able to affect him so much. His heart went out to his twin, and he felt a sort of connection between them rekindle anew. It was just a  simple misunderstanding, and once everything was cleared up Nigel would understand. Part of him let his brother continue to assume the things that he did, and blame him for Mischa’s death. That part of him that liked to let things go just to see what would happen. It was a dangerous thing to do, especially with guns involved, but curiosity killed the cat as they say.  

While he could ignore the harsh words, and was prepared to take the blame, feeling responsible for Nigel just as much as he had for Mischa, but what he could not forgive was the gun in his face. Nigel was about to receive a lesson in manners. He had a barely visible sign of disdain on his face. He very much hated guns, he found them completely abhorrent. His first thought was to eliminate the threat, and remove the danger, that being the gun. There were several ways this could be done, he could move, or take the firearm away. Assessing the best approach to the end goal, he estimated that taking away said weapon would be best. With one finger he cautiously, and very slowly pushed the gun to the side, away from where it was pointed at his heart. He was acting passive and deferential only to throw Nigel off. With the gun now pointed to the right, he swiftly twisted his twin’s wrist, and wrenched the gun away. He knew that he hadn’t been expecting it, and his brother still believed him to be a bookish weakling. Now that he had the gun, he removed the bullets, slipping them into his pants pocket, and laid the the firearm neatly next to the knife that still rest on the counter on his right. With a gently touch he turned the weapon at a 90 degree angle with the blade, and turned to look Nigel square in the eye. “Now… If you’ll allow me to explain.”  

___

His own gesture manifests itself like a double-edged sword. It could work as committing hara-kiri, as he turns the barrel up against his heart. The veins throbbing with pressurized blood pumping frantically, a visible tremble coursing through his whole appendages as the dormant volcano rumbles deep within, about to turn inside out. The beast awakening as gamut of emotions brim over the surface of his heart. All the guilt, anguish, haunting images of limbs tearing, bodies collapsing, cadavers distorting and becoming gnarled as wild creatures ravaged the viscera until everything became indistinguishable. Even the closed walls of the orphanage, the hatred towards the caretaker and most of them, directed towards his own brother metastasizes faster than malignant cancer cells and moss spreading through the very walls that had once been their home. Hannibal having reduced to a mute and his own temper exploding faster than the lit dynamite, bullies had fun provoking and observing him eat himself until all of his energy depleted. Devoid of nurturing individuals and a genuine heartbeat of contentedness, the crevices of floors, spilled with silent tears and crimson soaking through the pores became too much for an adolescent boy to handle. It would be better to be locked in a mental asylum, dealing with the psychological trauma than having to go through countless sensations sparring inside his head. 

Along with the reverberating screams from the inside of his head. Perhaps what he had been accusing his older twin of without a sound judgment and mental clarity as he had been surrounded by a venomous puff of acid himself. Fingers around the trigger tightens, as he would clutch his heart until it bursts open with building pressure. He is too aware of escalating ebb and flow of his heart, the diaphanous orbs dewy with surging emotions. It’s difficult to pull his sangfroid poker-face he so calmly wore during transactions or meeting with prospective clients or partners. The firm grasp doesn’t abate the wrath nor acts as emollient means, as his gun had acted as his second body; it followed everywhere with him and with its presence, he achieved complete solace along with the other’s blood shed, caused by one swift motion.  _ Where was he been when accusing Hannibal of not being there when the tragedy knocked on their doorsteps?  _ He wasn’t ready to continue to run away from the ghost of their shared pasts and let the demons inside him gnaw at his heart and brain with unchecked wrath, both inwardly and outwardly. However different they were, the one thing he couldn’t forgive the one opposite him had been just how removed and withdrawn he seemed. As if nothing affected him as much as it did to him. Every kill constituted his own projection towards the killers, which he knew with the onslaught of violence, were many as they had been outnumbered. Now knowing that the older twin fumbled with others’ mind as a shrink, that managed to fuel more of the fire within him as anger licks taut all over his spine, petrifying his stance within the space.  

“Too busy trying to establish your fucking reputation of being the ‘good doctor’ and all that jazz. If your fucking sense of morality and ethic is off the fucking charts, you would’ve used your fucking drawings to get yourself into an art school, instead of trying to save every fucking one you just couldn’t. The least beneficial thing you could’ve done was to use your goddamn money on trying to bring some justice by searching for those damned killers, at least hire a goddamn hit-man or someone to do things for you if you’re gonna be a wimpy coward.” Unwavering stare burns through Hannibal’s maroon as his gaze never leaves the tip of the gun, the muzzle steadily pointing at the center of the twin’s chest. Locked like a viewfinder of the gun, with a sharpshooter’s precision. Not oblivious, but unexpected to see Hannibal’s hand moving in the air like it had been inside molasses, the sudden snapping motion has him blurt out a low and sharp cry, fingers immediately unclasping to let go of the smooth metal, gleaming with years of use. He could feel the joint strain with acute pain, at worst, it could’ve been fractured considering how contorted the motion had been. Brows tightly pinched, he scowls into the twin’s face, as irrefragable anger conveys the impression of bellicosity, looming over the louring sky. Fingers become scythes as he closes in the distance without a single moment of hesitation, he squeezes the life out of the older twin by the collar, just underneath the jaw. He would have gave Hannibal a knuckle punch to the Adam’s apple if he hadn’t been his own blood, as he knew it would surely cause anyone to choke and unable to breath, as it had been the most vulnerable part of the neck. Along with the radiating pain around his wrist, as he senses the flesh swell around the joint, the flap of skin underneath his eyes twitch imperceptibly with brimming anger, boiling over as the outside of his elbow acts as a leverage against where he just had pointed a gun. “There would be no fucking need to explain. I’ll see you crumble like a fucking cookie underneath my feet, then we’ll talk.” 


	5. Chapter 5

Teeth clench, as Nigel faster than lightning grabs him by the collar. His natural instincts kick in and automatically he defends himself against his brother. His heartbeat never rises once under the assault, and his cold steely gaze bores daggers into his twin’s soul. It had been so long since anyone presented him with a challenge whatsoever, so he relished the idea of a fight. Nigel would certainly be an interesting opponent, and he never imagined this morning, that by the end of the night his brother and him would be bumping heads in his kitchen. He remained completely calm while being choked, it would do no good to panic. With his left hand he snaked it up the middle of Nigel’s two. He then clamped his brother’s hand to his chest like glue, firm steady grip holding him tight. Clearly talking was out of the question now until some sense had been knocked into his rash and unruly twin. With a micro-snarl, a brief curl of lips, he takes his right hand and finds the elbow of Nigel’s left arm. He applied just the right amount of pressure to leverage him to the side and nearly tipping him over, while resting the hands away from his neck. He held the stance as his brother was bent over in such an awkward position, with his left arm bent up at an angle.

If Nigel had been anyone else, he’d have followed this up with a swift knee to the face or chest.He planned to go easy on him. It would not do to ruin their relationship again now after so long, because he broke bones or bruised his twin’s fragile ego. His brother had so much potential. With the two of them together, they truly could be unstoppable. Oh how he missed the fleeting few years they had together back in Paris, while he had been attending boarding school. His brother and him had a brief reunion there after not seeing each other for three years. His twin had come and found him in France after he was adopted by their uncle. They had shared a two year incestuous relationship until he got his internship here in Baltimore. Things had taking a sour turn for the worse, as they got into a heated argument back then, over their possible separation. It had been sudden, and neither one was willing to let go of their pride, it had cost them dearly. Almost twenty years went by before they saw each other again now. It was thrilling and a little frightening to think he could lose it all again, if he took one wrong step, or said the wrong thing.     

He wanted this to be over and done with so they could move on, and start over fresh. If things worked out, he might ask his brother to stay here in Baltimore, but there would be no knowing what sort answer he would receive. It was Nigel’s temper that was getting the best of him, and if he only learned to put that aside during a fight, he would truly be a force to reckon with. With a lull in action, he took a moment to gauge the different smells, cigarette smoke, motor oil, a faint hint of gasoline, and gunpowder, the firearm had been discharged recently. He could smell his twin’s cologne, and the hint of the wine they shared along with their meal. Underneath all of these many different scents, was the unmistakable smell of rage, that was poring of Nigel like radiation. If his dear brother would stop acting like such a hooligan for one second, he would explain everything. He also was going to make him take a bath, as he was stinking up his house, and he would wash his clothes for him. With a little sigh, he let go of the firm hold he had on Nigel, and took a step backwards. He was loosening his tie. “Are you going to behave yourself, so that I might explain, or are you going to continue to act like an animal?”

___

Already gauging the unmistakable cloying scent of adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream, each forceful squeeze accompanies with palpitating heartbeat. Every expanse of skin is the conduit for the outwardly unleash, molten lava swirling like sharp jagged edges of talons, thorns beating against the eroded cliff. Win or lose, it didn’t matter as when he had been provoked enough, he had been livid enough since meeting his twin face-to-face. How come he could be so always placid and able to keep the outwardly peace of his mind when everything gripped cholers with him. With all intents and purposes, he returns the acrimonious glower as a trepidation of certitude spreads over his chest. Not the fear of the other, but more of an annoyance and agitation as he confirms there had been no change in the other’s heartbeat. Lips thinned and pressed tight, he sets his teeth as his equilibrium tips, almost losing his footing as Hannibal snakes away. There would be no fighting it as if he had put up a resistance, bones would break it not apposite pressure applied. It heats up even more of his bellicose nature, although his body becomes akin to a strung-up bow at such unnatural angle with tremor diffusing all over his body like an electric current. 

It would be incontestable to him that his presumptuous behavior would be what turns this particular fight to an imminent halt. Those tempestuous and fleeting couple of years in solemn bliss and incomparable contentment wasn’t going to enthrall his mind nor stay truth to the strands of memories, protected along all the gloom and hardships within those nineteen years after their separation. His aspiration to score his name on Bucharest’s club scene and its underground drug and firearm trade had served him like a bellwether for his lackadaisical personal life. He would either remain brooding in solitude or there would be inscrutable urge to get into brawls and play with brickbats. He would be driven by adverse and sullen demeanor, which meant people would either eschew him in all or face in defiance. When that discerning energy had been redirected towards him being a criminal mastermind, it meant he had the willingness to confront unequivocally the major issues of the club with sentience and iron fist. However, there would be no denying it that he needed to disabuse himself from denying the fact that abandonment brought out his most egregious qualities in him and made him bitter than the drugs he had shot inside his bloodstream, more than for its intended recreational use. 

Holding just enough tension and easing into the pressure, it would be better to lean into the coursing pain and trying to break away. The spreading pain beats like waves of the shore and he is well aware of his increasing heartbeat slowly spreading the ribcage apart as each rhythm becomes hoof-beat of galloping stallion. Huffing to blow the falling locks of hair that veil in front of his right eye, hazel orbs turn torches flaming in the hands of a rebellious crowd, with adverse intent as more frustration flares. His voice slightly growing breathy and guttural, entrenched anger resumes to pour over him as each word turns venom. “You’re always the one who has been like a fucking sitting duck, awaiting me to defend your little mute ass or else remain passive until I search for your damn existence like a quintessential lost child looking for a clutch or a company.” Circling his wrist as his lips twist with contempt, he stretches his neck and straightens his shoulder, turning away as if he didn’t see the older twin as a threat. His rage reaching its zenith, he pivots his hips around, landing a forceful jab, square on Hannibal’s left cheek, just underneath the sharp protrusion of the other’s cheekbone. “You’re quite a fucking exemplary when it comes to bringing one out of me at this point.”   


	6. Chapter 6

The sudden force of the blow knocks his head to the side. It shook his nice and neat hairstyle from the way it was combed. Strands of greying ashen hair hung loosely in his eyes. He stood staring off in the direction his head was now pointed. Eyes glinting he turned back to Nigel with a look of disgust on his face, he was offended that it had come to blows. “I have given you a chance, I had hoped we could settle this like adults, but you have proven me wrong.” His usually calm voice amplified just a little, he did not like to raise his voice, but he was now losing his temper. While most of the time he was able to keep a lid on things, and it had been so very long since he had done anything such as, lash out in anger like this. Nigel set his blood to boiling, and made him do things he wouldn’t normally. There was now a welt rising just under his left cheekbone and it was smarting. It would look terrible in the morning. His tie he held clenched in his right hand.  One moment he was standing perfectly still the next he wound the tie once around his knuckles to protect them, and lunged forward. He punched Nigel right between the eyes, and across the bridge of his nose. He had thrown his full weight into it. Wheeling away he grabbed the knife that still rest on the counter, while Nigel was still distracted from the strike to the face.

He knew from experience that his twin’s eyes would be watering, and he could see a split oozing blood on a cut above his nose. He held the slender blade like he knew how to use it, and it was loose in his grasp. “You have pushed me to this, you always did have a smart mouth, and it will one day get you into more trouble.” He knew that his brother wouldn’t stop until one of them was down for the count. His twin might not be willing to kill him, but he didn’t care in his blind rage right now how much he hurt his target. If it was going to be like that, then so be it. It was now time to end this little spat, and set things straight. At least when his twin was incapacitated he wouldn’t be able to do anything, but to listen to what his sibling had to say. Letting the tie loosen in his grasp, he stepped into the circle of Nigel’s space, and swept his feet out from under him. He stood above him as his brother went down, and encircled the tie around his neck. Pulling it tight with one hand the other still held the blade, and he when went down on one knee next to where Nigel lay dazed and panting on the floor. He pulled the tie tight enough to choke, and laid the edge of the blade against his twin’s throat just above where the tie squeezed.

“I could gut you like a fish, but I don’t want that. I have had just about enough from you, and your slinging remarks.” While he didn’t want to maim or kill his brother, he did want to cause him enough pain that it would make reliant on him for a while, at least long enough so that they could talk. Breaking bones would too harsh, and messy, it would require binding, a cast, and too long of a recovery time. Sadistically his mind trailed off to the different things that he could do to him, but figure it would be counter productive. In a lower hushed voice like one might speak to a child, he told Nigel. “Now hold still, the more you struggle the worse this will hurt, and I prefer this to be a clean wound, less scarring.” He removed the blade from against Nigel’s throat and sunk it into his right shoulder, making sure to avoid any major nerves or arteries. He didn’t stick it in deep enough to hit bone, nor did he  remove it. The blade stayed in place, and he let loose his hold on the tie around Nigel’s neck. He pet his brother gently on the cheek, and made shushing noises at him. “What I had been trying to explain to you, was that I already took care of the scum who slaughtered our family.” He now went into clinical mode; standing he got a clean dish towel, and wrapped it neatly around the base of where the blade stuck into Nigel’s shoulder. “If you will allow me, I would like to take care of you. Also fill you in on the details, there is much you have missed out on.”          

___

Registering the red streak grazing the coppery-tone of the older twin’s cheekbone, the mark mirrors a crudely dragged brushstroke of a bristle brush along the rough canvas, jagged and seared. He doesn’t have to divert his gaze towards his knuckle to make out a bit of crimson staining his skin, along with his own as the friction and the pivoting movement caused him to land punches and harder for Hannibal to dodge or counter his power. Having his wrist bent at the awkward ankle and having not properly trained in martial arts, his power in a hook didn’t fully materialize correctly from the explosive rotation of the hips and shoulders, allowing a large amount of body weight to be thrown behind the punch. His reconstructed idea of Hannibal in his mind from the youth already having taken a significant turn, no recollection would be the same as what he considered a mute weakling turned into a composed, and an expert melee fighter. Having finally elicited a visible and noticeable response from the other’s face, the window of the soul of them differs to the core. Every minute flash bulb of memory is emotionally charged with him and perceiving Hannibal’s outwardly expression brings an instant gratification. A flash of nefarious smirk dips his cheek with such a deceivingly wistful eye, offering a sophistry to his defense. “We are still fucking adults, we should’ve settled the matter like this before you left for the States. I would have incapacitated you with my eyes covered. Turn your face into a fucking bowl of oatmeal.” 

Too caught up in his skewed memory and the imagination of what he had just blurted out, unfiltered as it could have been, the jab would have been hard to surprise him, but it knocks his senses out as a stinging pain instantly turns pins and needles. The momentum itself is enough for him to see a booming thunder, shattering the air as the force itself tears a gash right through the bridge of his nose, the warmth spreading and spilling over the sharp angles down his nose. The water brims over and threatens to fall down, and he rolls his eyes back, trying to thwart it from happening. The taste and the scent alone fuels the bonfire still whirling inside his heart as he staggers to take a few back-steps. “This audacity of mine is what made me prevail over circumstances like this and...” Before he could gain composure and finish another trail of his backchat,  _ how he would want to rip the other in pieces as one of his unfortunate victims, just enough to get his wrath in check,  _ a crescent sweep of Hannibal’s legs connecting his back against the hard floor. His instinct is to prevent the back of his head from banging, so he cushions the fall with the bent elbow, trying to break the fall. Still, his head spirals in rolling waves and swirls and it takes a considerable amount of time for him to perceive through the opalescent veils that hinder what his older twin had been doing. Flopping on his back and propping himself with his elbows to spring back up, then he feels the silk constricting just above his Adam’s apple. Giving an imperceptible tilt of his neck, he watches a drop of blood dribble and he scowls, teeth pressing deep into his lower lip. 

The bubbling anger brim over in a form of involuntary tremors, filmy orbs tint with red around the corner of his eyes, oxygen depleting as it straightly vacuums out of him faster than the column of pressurized air pushing the bullet out of its casing. Instead of rebutting, he offers a contumacious gaze instead, his defiance and uncontrollable rage still being left unchecked, resisting pressure. Him being not a naivete to the means and methods of torturing people and to bring a subversive outcome to all of this, he heaves a long and restrained sigh, only to be well-aware of his lungs burning with depleting air. The hyperventilating heart on verge of spurting blood as the blade lunges to pierce his shoulder, acute burning sensation radiates all over as the white fabric seeps with blood. The contrasting sensation renders his body to be reduced like a snail drenched in honey. The air continuing to be knocked off, the glowing palpitations turning percussion of the drum right next to his ear, where along with the pumping adrenaline, more blood trails down the curve of his sharp cheekbones, down to draw a dramatic arch. Despite the shock factor, the wheeze of his voice along with all the boiled over sensation instantly cools down, taking his vitality as he sinks onto the floor. “...How, how the fuck did you find them?” More than the fact that he had been completely beaten, it’s the contouring of the burning tear that graces his face, copious amount pushed through the corner of his eyes that makes him to want to be unyielding to admit his defeat. Putting his best indomitable gaze through wavering pupils, frowning as the other’s fingers contact his skin. “So you’ve killed them, did you commit the act when you had still been in Europe?”  


	7. Chapter 7

“Yes” He answered his brother’s questions with a curious look. “Just before you found me in France; I hunted them down one by one.” Helping his twin to his feet and supporting him under the arm, he took charge. “Press here, and hold this steady. Let us get you to the bathroom.” He instructed Nigel, as they made their way slowly up stairs. Ordering his brother around, he made him lean up against the wall while he drew him a bath. “It will require stitches, and I will dress your wound while you take a bath.” Adjusting the water temperatures, he removed his vest, taking it into his walk in closest, he hung the garment up in it’s rightful place. He retrieved a towel and washcloth for Nigel from the linen closet, and returned to the bathroom.”I’ll explain more when you are in the tub.” He pointed a finger towards the bath, and inclined his head a fraction. Helping his brother, they managed to remove his shoes, and pants. He folded everything neatly and rested them on a counter. He unbuttoned Nigel’s shirt but left it on for now, since the knife was still in the wound. “Stay here while I fetch my medical bag, and you’re doing fine.” Patting his brother lightly on the cheek, he cheerfully rushed off to retrieve his supplies. Just before he reached the door, he pivoted slightly on his heel with a little grin. “Did you know most stabbings are done with a kitchen knife?” with that he left the room.  He came back with the bag and some more clean towels to stop the bleeding.

He washed his hands in the sink, and donned a pair of rubber gloves. Opening his bag he pulled out a pair of scissors, “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ll buy you a better shirt.” Without waiting for his brother to reply, he cut around the wound so that they could take the shirt off. Not even missing a beat he tossed the shirt in the trash, and gave his brother a look when he started to protest. He pulled a needle and syringe out of his bag, and a little tiny glass bottle. He filled the syringe; lightly tapping on it with a finger, and administered a local anesthetic.  “Come sit here, and I’ll remove the blade now.” He made Nigel sit on the edge of the tub, and handed him a clean towel. “When I take this out, I want you to apply pressure to it.” He hovered over his twin like a hawk, making sure he did as he was told. He had adopted a stern tone. “Are you ready?” He waited for confirmation from his brother, then with a steady hand removed the knife. The new towel soaked up blood, and he shut the bath tap off. Helping Nigel into the tub, he let him soak for a few moments in the antique claw-foot bath. He took off the rubber gloves he wore, and went off to retrieve a wooden stool to sit on while he stitched up the cut.  

Sitting by the tub with a new pair of gloves on, he had cleaned the wound with antiseptic, and was neatly stitching Nigel up with a curved needle. He continued his tale where he left off, “When I was adopted by our uncle, I did some research, abided my time, and waited.” During those years he had been so angry, and almost as full of rage as Nigel was. Even when he was still mute, the need to avenge their family was all he thought about, it consumed him. “I went back to the scene of the crime just before boarding school started, a year before you found me.” He let out an inaudible sigh, it pained him still all these years later to talk about it.  “All of my spare free time was spent searching for clues, when I found a lead, it ended up being the right one.” Finished with the sutures he cut the thread with the scissors, and prepared to dress the wound. “I eventually little by little… found all five,, and slaughtered them like the pigs they were.” As the oldest child he felt a great sense of duty to his family to avenge their deaths, and he had made sure that he dispensed his own brand justice as he saw fit. “I didn’t tell you because, I felt like it was my burden to bare. I wanted to spare you that if I could. At the time I felt it was the right thing to do.” He was a little wary about telling his brother about how it still haunted him to this day. That he liked killing those pigs, and it followed him all the way to Baltimore. “If you are to stay here with me, there will be a few rules.” The corner of his mouth twitched, while he smoothed a hand over the clean bandage.     

___

Already about to counter in dissension as he didn’t see how Hannibal could have committed the act in tracing every one of them. It doesn’t leave a substantial stretch of time for the older twin to get his shit together and track every single one of them, but then, his brother having been mute all the time and not even talking to him left him both excruciatingly alone and always on the edge, questioning if Hannibal would ever assent the idea of hunting them down, to make them acquiesce to their unforeseen demise as he slaughtered them as they deserved. Two bullets every limb for single projectile fired, he would hear them scream in agony and that song would play inside him as the most mellifluous serenade he could etch into the crease of his brain to be played over and over again. The gruesome scene still ingrained to his unconscious like it just happened a few minutes ago. Like snapshots taken at the crime scenes, with his grown mind, he could surely make out the projectiles of the bullets and how the blood pattern would have drawn out like a Jackson Pollock paintings all over the walls and floor. There had been at least three perpetrators, judging by a different bullet casings and footsteps, the snow melted and droplets still clinging against the heavily caked dirt ungracefully smeared against the impeccable surface. More than the stench of rusting blood and bodily fluids, Like wild boars charging without any restraint, the crime had been messy, an act of barbarous brutality. That meant prolonged psychological trauma for both of them as they manifested in different forms within them as well as it had been easy to retrace the crime scene to beat the bushes and butcher them. 

“If I knew you had been as fucking impatiently flagitious about the whole thing as I had been the whole time, I would have liked to disembowel them whole to partake in catharsis.” Starting up the stairs and applying a steady pressure with his left hand, the awkwardly bent elbow from earlier becomes slightly inflamed, a dull pain intensifying along with the depleting adrenaline. Futilely trying to placate his disappointment and blown chance at getting his own hands to sadistically have fun at hearing their screams, transforming to become emollient to soothe the past infliction, he frowns in displease at how Hannibal is treating him now. He wasn’t going to admit, but surprisingly, it was rather pacifying to have his older brother take charge and yet, it’s enigmatic to register how their relationship had dramatically changed from the orphanage years of being niggled to every single thing, hint of their incestuous relationship, having fun with his own irascible behavior and mostly, Hannibal’s muteness and removed personality, even from him. Too many thoughts overwhelm his brain all at once and when he comes to his senses, he’s half-naked, still clutching his fingers around the towel and frowning as the older twin’s words become much of a vexation. “I am sure you would’ve savored that fucking taste of blood on your damned painted face with that same grin to irritate them. Screams become songs, doesn’t it?” He fails to bite back a sharp retort as he enumerates all the grudges regarding that issue.  

“That.. That was one of my fucking favorite shirt.” Reciprocating the look that the other twin gives him, he grumbles and blurts his words out as the shirt turns into a mere bloodied rag. Bloodshot eyes full of hostile glare, the needle is quick to perforate the skin around his shoulder, the entry wound becoming swollen as the color turns to deep red. Having no other choice but to be docile, his inquisitorial nature will soon unfold. He wants all the details and to relive that experience. Perhaps that would put him to sleep in tranquility as the inquietude of not avenging his family followed him like a haunting ghost. Slowly blinking once, he sinks into the steamy water and lets all the exhaustion unfold and dissolve into the caressing ripples. “Yes.” His right arm perched lightly on the edge of the most expensive-looking bathtub made with cast iron. Although the pain pleasurably numbs down enough for him to barely feel the curve of suture closing the gaping wound with machine-like precision. Intently listening to the continuation of the recollection and his sharp features crunching up between a frown and a pout, a repugnant snarl dips as he mocks in deep baritone. “I’d fucking applause for that but right now you have rendered me fucking useless and you had been absolutely wrong. I would have had my own share of entertainment dipping my hand in those fucking lowlifes; eviscerate them in half and feed them to wild animals.” Heaving a dramatic sigh and rolling his eyes, he drops his chin and curls his fingers into fists. “You are not fucking going to forcibly assume control and tell me what to do and what not to do.” Fingers finding Hannibal’s ashen locks, he clutches them slowly, gently tugging them toward him. “What you can at least do is to save me the fucking torture and give me a fucking bottle of whiskey.” What had he done to endure this uptight old fart is out of his league in trying to perceive. 


	8. Chapter 8

He shut his emotions down for a few moments, face growing impassive, and hard. He had no idea that his brother felt that way about their tragic past. It was a little shocking to find that Nigel had wanted the same things that Hannibal did all those years ago. Looking down at the floor while he tidied up the bathroom, he was feeling a little petty. “If you hadn’t left me behind at the orphanage, I might have included you in my search for vengeance.” Everything that was bloody he now gathered up and bundled together. It would be burnt in the furnace down in the basement. He did not need any suspicious trash leaving the premises. It had been so long since he allowed anyone into his domain, and see past his well build walls around himself. With his brother is was so easy to open up again. They were so alike yet had nothing in common. The threads of fate that held them together was their shared trauma, their family, and the fleeting relationship they had for a few short years. He watched his brother with lidded eyes, as he vented his frustrations. “Forgive me, I had not thought to include you during that time. I admit back then, all I could see was red. Getting revenge was all I cared about, that is until it was done.”

Everything had depended on him, he had to see things right, to avenge their family name, to put things to rights. Yet it still hadn’t been enough to slake his blood lust. He wanted more, and now he went around killing anyone who got in his way, or who he saw fit. He knew he was better than everyone else, and he didn’t let anything stop him. Watching his brother glower at him, he was a little amused. Yes Nigel had potential to be so much more, to be a wolf among sheep like himself, he sensed that he was already halfway there. It would just take a little refining, and polishing. He wasn’t going to present his brother to the world looking and acting like some heathen. Stand just out of reach of the tub, “You will not smoke in this house. Is that clear?  I stabbed you now… It’s true, and I will do worse to you, if I catch you smoking in my home again.” It was a threat, and he meant every word of it, he couldn’t abide the cigarette smoke in his lovely home. “There is a backyard, if you insist.” Huffing out a little sigh, he knew he would be getting into a lot of exhausting work with his brother here. “Secondly you will not answer my phone. And I will see to your clothing.” He had ignored all of Nigel’s protests, as if he didn’t even hear him. There would be no debating, his house his rules.

He took pity on his twin, and decided the rest could wait until tomorrow. It was the weekend and he had no appointments nor any engagements. Though he would have to look at his schedule and arrange everything with Nigel in mind. He also had a phone call to make before it got too late. He grimaced disdainfully as his hair being pulled, but his eyes soften around the edge just a little bit. “It is good to see you…” The words ‘I missed you’ couldn’t break free, he was too stubborn, and didn’t want to admit it just yet. He got up feeling rather emotional, and went to fetch some black label whiskey for them both. While pouring them both two fingers of liquor in low glass tumblers, he started plotting out all the things he had to do before tomorrow morning. He also couldn’t let his well built in skeptical nature go, he did not like the idea of allowing his brother to snoop around his home in the night. So, he would have that to take care of. Taking the glasses back to the bathroom he handed one to Nigel. “Take it or leave it.” The Hubble space station would have been able to see the anger rising and pouring off his brother right now, and it made him want to laugh. He did not tell his twin that the reason he wasn’t giving him much to drink, was because he was also going to drug him. Digging in his bag he filled another syringe. “I’m going to give you something for the pain.” Sticking the needle in Nigel’s neck, before he could do anything about it, a small grin touched his lips. Plucking the empty glass out of his twin’s hand just before it crashed to the floor, he bent and kissed him on the forehead. He had a lot of work to do, and he had to put his oaf of a brother to bed.        

___

Looking at few droplets of blood spreading with the moisture and steam filling the entire premise of the suite bathroom and strewn towels, a mischievous thought surfaces. He would take his brother’s OCD into consideration and watch the older twin get more than frustrated with the mess. “I wasn’t going to turn into a fucking mute nor talk to the goddamn walls to release my own fucking anguish and wrath. I had no one to talk to.” If his feet hadn’t been submerged in the water with his exhausted body finally crashing with the tenseness from the long-duration flight and being brisked the whole time, he would’ve booted Hannibal’s behind as the other slouched down to keep everything well-ordered. “It’s an unsolved mystery that how a granny like yourself could keep your house fucking meticulously clean. You wouldn’t need all of this shit living alone and have an army of Roomba robotic vacuum cleaners to get the fucking job done.” Cracking a bit of a laugh and lips snarling upward in a sinister grin, the thought of making his brother exasperated and drawing out more of that hidden emotion completely entrances him. It’s like finding hidden latches and disguised rooms to find something esoteric, exposing some unfathomable truth out in the open to attempt to understand his closed-up twin a bit better.

“It’s gotten beyond the point of rectifying, but judging by how.. Effortlessly you managed to subdue me in an outright manner, it turns me somewhat insane to think you still see red and do so with ostentatious precision.” Smoothing a hand over the recently applied bandage and feeling the raised flesh and suture give a bit of a throbbing notion, the pain is pleasurably numbed enough for him to relish the refection of the caress, for ephemeral duration of time. Until Hannibal begins to list acceptable conduct, which more in turn, manifests into tempestuous clamor of defiance in his own part. Fingers curled into fists, eyes narrow into thin strips as he literally could hear his veins throb. He’s already shooting venomous arrow tips on the side of Hannibal’s face, so there would be no need to elevate his squinted glare further. “I can’t fucking smoke in restaurants and other fucking vicinity for that matter and now I can’t smoke in my goddamn house? No wonder you don’t have anyone to live with, you being such a fusspot.” All the carping at his brother’s unacceptable rules would not get anything substantive; mainly from pulling their distance together and be enveloped by the halcyon mind. “And what the fuck is wrong with my clothes? I will have my own fucking clothes sent from home if it’s necessary or buy few of my fucking own.” Now he’s ready to be such a malcontent even when Hannibal does something genuinely nice for a change and grouse and protest with all means. 

Heaving a long-suffering sigh and eyes narrowed even further with a slight head tilt, he shakes his head with twisted lips, pressing them to form a half-smile in cynical manner. “I think I much prefer you being a fucking mute than ordering me around like a fucking drill sergeant laying out all the bloody fucking laws for me to follow!” Scratching the other’s scalp as if he had been turning the earth with the rake, he tugs on the locks and lets it go in an unfurling motion as Hannibal brings them liquor. Raising an eyebrow and dramatically frowning in a displease, he wants to reach out for the bottle and guzzle the damn bottle down until it was half-empty, but it is just out of his reach and he would have to prop himself with the injured elbow, which wouldn’t be ideal. Grumpily taking the drink, more like snatching it free from the older twin’s grasp, his head tips over, all the way until the bottom of the low glass tumbler becomes bone-dry. There would be no remonstrating as this particular whiskey was in fact, his favorite one with the right balance of flavor and burn. The warmth from the liquor spreading all over and content (without all of the rules laid out for him), he raises a suspicious eyebrow and a frowning down-tilt of his lips as his arm hangs loosely against the edge of the bathtub. “I don’t fucking need anything for pain…” Before he could finish the fleeting, another discordant thought, the beveled edge pierces a particularly thick vein standing out from his neck. Pupils enlarge in disbelief, he shoots a scowl before his lids flutter close like shutter, as his face sluggishly draws a semi-arch, crestfallen even before the gentle ripple of the water glides off the expanse of his chest and droplets of perspiration and condensed water plasters to veil half of his drooped head. 


	9. Chapter 9

Soon he had his twin tucked into bed in the spare room, with some cozy pajamas on, he was thankful they were the same size. It made dressing him easy, and he could wear his things, until he bought his brother some new clothes. He checked his watch, it was after just after 11pm, too late to make any courtesy calls, he didn’t want to be rude. So he finished cleaning up, making sure there was no trace of blood left behind. Nigel’s firearm with the bullets, he put into a hidden safe behind a painting. His twin’s remaining clothing he put in the washer, then he changed out of his own clothes into something more suiting for a night out. The kitchen knife he used to stab Nigel was sterilized, and washed, the glasses put back in their place. He refused to leave his house without making sure everything was just in it’s place. He figured he had window of a few hours to get what he needed done. Lucky for him he was able to go on very little sleep, he calculated that he would get about three hours of shut eye if he was efficient. With keys in hand, he threw on a coat and double checked to make sure he had his phone. As he went through the house, he turned off all of the lights.. Before he left he did a sweep around the outside checking to make sure Nigel had come alone. The last thing he wanted was to be jumped on his way to his car.                     

Just as he predicted he was out for around five hours, and got three hours of sleep. He woke up early, he had taken a shower last night before bed, he checked on his twin who was still asleep. That was fine, because he inspected the wound, cleaned area and redressed it with a fresh bandage. Routine was a big deal for him, and with Nigel here it threw him off. It was only a minor annoyance, but it still made him slightly grumpy in the morning. Nothing a good cup of coffee couldn’t cure. Still in his pajamas he made breakfast, and made his phone call to a friend… canceling  their dinner date. Nigel was going to be a hand full. He also would like to devote a good amount of attention into their re-acquaintance. He hadn’t been in such a good mood in so long. When in came to his brother he really didn’t mind going the extra mile, and he wanted his brother to settle in quickly. The unmistakable sounds of Nigel waking was his cue to bring him breakfast in bed. He had it all arranged neatly on a tray, with garnish and a fresh cut flower. When he saw his brother trying to get up out of bed, he pushed him back down, and settled the tray across his lap. “I have made you a frittata with ham for breakfast, please enjoy.“ He beamed cheerfully at his brother. He wanted to keep him in bed as long as possible for a nice speedy recovery.

“You need to stay in bed until I approve of your moving about.” He sat on the edge of the bed opposite of Nigel, watching him carefully. He didn’t even bat an eyelash at the way his brother was glaring at him. Getting up he moved to an arm chair close to the bed. They sat in silence for a short while, he had waited until Nigel was eating to continue telling him of details from hunting down their family’s murderers. He thought long about telling his brother everything, and came to the conclusion that he had nothing to lose. He knew that Nigel would never turn him in, and if he choose to leave again because of the whole story… then there would be no stopping him. He wanted to be honest, and call it a hunch he was going on blind faith that Nigel wouldn’t mind so very much. “You should know my dear, that what happen to us, and what I did… “ He paused with his leg cross, and a hand resting on his ankle. It was hard for him to admit all of this, but Nigel deserved to know, and it would be all part of his plan to get his brother to join him in his unique hobbies. “It still haunts me to this day, it hadn’t been enough to just kill them, not after what they did to poor Mischa.” He got teary-eyed just thinking about it, and always their little sister effected him so. “Each one that I found, I ate a part of them. It was only fair, I paid them in kindness for what they did.” With lips pursed into a thin line, he pressed on, “The horror, it followed me here to Baltimore. I didn’t stop killing, not even after I found the last of them.”  He raised an eyebrow at Nigel, resting his chin in his hand, watching the realization dawn on him. “I transferred my love of anatomy into the culinary arts.”       

___

The drug courses through him like quick-acting poison, even more amplified with the lingering anger making every one of his vertebrae taut. However they perceived and unleashed their traumatized experiences differently, Hannibal had been discreet enough to hide his sharp claws and refused to expose himself out in the open. Unlike him. It was all blood and bones when everything became too harsh for him. A beast in human clothing, always drenched with uncontrolled anger and chaos surrounding him. It was gnawing, eating him whole. Perhaps that meticulousness and not accepting a minute thing out of his control had been his older twin’s own mechanism in getting over it. The last clutch before everything went haywire, beyond his grasp as he latches onto the fleeting sanity. The poison inside his veins turn into a surge of gasoline, each elevated palpitation turns to spark him whole as he succumbs into a deep, unperturbed sleep. He would either purge by letting loose like a feral predator, blowing coup de grace, instead of letting himself dissolute with imploding wrath. Although not a frequent user as he had seen how moribund junkies got with persistent drug use, he wasn’t going to let it permeate and destroy him further than the unchecked anger already damaged him and the world around him. Either he would get aid from binge drinking himself closer to death or suffer from insomnia - lifetime of leading a nocturnal life had served him well, but it meant he would interminably go without substantial amount of sleep. 

There is no usual dream of deluging crimson, him recreating the act through almost distastefully perfervid state of zealous fever. When the unbridled fury consumed him, it was a sight to behold as the sight, bodily fluids spilled over, innards creating the most unspeakable mess and the stench would last enough to permeate through the office walls. As the local anesthesia begins to wear off, the spreading heat persists to coat him in a faint film of perspiration. The dawn of light blinding and harsh against his still groggy head, he groans and turns to bury his face opposite the crawling brightness overtaking the huge-ass bed with all fucking silk around him. Slowly opening his eyes, one at a time to not register the sight of his pruned finger or unclothed form, he growls in displease and heaves an earth-rattling sigh. Characterized by pompous display of his silk pajama-clad body and his frame laid still and straight like a goddamn cadaver, the first thing he does is to kick off the sheets sandwiching him between the slippery fabric and chucking the fucking top off. Only to inwardly hiss in burning sensation turning achy all over his upper torso, his expressive hazel turns laser as soon as Hannibal’s footstep closes the distance. If his stomach hadn’t been growling, he would be roaring like Leo the lion from Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer as he shoots more daggers at the other’s smug little face. “What the fuck have you given me, you fucking smug shit! Without my fucking consent and... Ahh!” Decibel gradually rising as he looks at the elaborate display of appetizing food, he rolls his eyes downward and pokes the garnish around with his finger, raising a skeptical eyebrow and lifting it afterwards. “I am not going to fucking trickle blood and leave a goddamn gooey mess like a bloody snail. Are you going to trail my behind with a fucking scoop and clean up after me? Ugh, why the fuck does it have to be ham out of any other thing you could’ve put in here?” Continuing to shoot him an annoyed gaze as he complains, but he digs into the frittata with rapaciousness with occasional ‘um-hm,’ and appreciative nods as he devours it within minutes.

It must be the damned jet-lag and the exertion from their confrontation combined, but finding it discordant with his restricted movements, much to his exasperation, he gives up to use the utensil on his dominant hand and scrapes and scoops all the chunks with his left one, the movement obviously awkward as he molds his lips over towards the place, with his knees as leverage to bring the tray closer. He wasn’t going to admit just yet nor show enough of his pleasure in savoring the most delicious and flavorful plate he had ever eaten, as the furor still contains within him. His culinary efforts had led him nowhere, as nothing he ate matched in sophistication or presentation. Spitefulness pushed back his subconscious for now, he listens to Hannibal’s rather silvery voice, hint of faint reluctance and genuine emotion pouring out from the modulated tone. “Cannibalism aside, did you reciprocate and shed enough of their fucking screams and filthy blood? You know our family didn’t die an instantaneous death. They would’ve felt every imperceptible thing until there was no fucking blood to pump out.” As unperturbed by Hannibal’s admission, it would have been outrageous revelation for people, but he wasn’t a normal person, either. Now that the food had been sitting well in his stomach, he takes a long, slow sip and savors the flavors more thoroughly. “So that liver you fed me last night was from a human. I can take a good educated guess that this isn’t an ordinary ham.” Lips pursed, they curl in a primeval grin as blinding emotion surges over. Giving his shoulders an imperceptible shrug, he clears the plate and washes everything down with a long chug of remaining cup of joe. “And you’d supposedly want to ‘elevate’ my butchery to teach me anatomical knowledge.” Knowing his brother didn’t offer him any outright omission and realizing how they had been shaped hadn’t differed too much. He too, had foam at mouth and loosened himself to partake in blood-lust.    


	10. Chapter 10

Sitting opposite his brother in the comfortable armchair he watched him scarf down his food. He looked like he barely stopped to breath once while eating. He was unrefined and utterly oafish. Like a bull in a china shop, and would probably bring him more headache than he cared to think about right now. Despite all of Nigel’s shortcomings in his opinion, he couldn’t help see the good in him being here. Mainly he was glad not to be alone any longer. He didn’t notice how very lonely he was until his brother showed up last night. He didn’t want to change Nigel so much as make him the best version of himself that he could possibly be. With his brother here he could share the things he loved with another, without fear of growing too close, and letting someone into his world. It was risky, and he didn’t generally find anyone worthy of his time. Nigel at least would give him a little side project to work on. He was very pleased that it didn’t bother his twin one bit that he killed and ate those pigs… He didn’t say a word while his brother talked and finished his food. “Trust me when I tell you they got their just desserts.” He finally broke his silence, answering a question amusing himself with a little pun. Sitting up and forward a little bit, with both feet now planted on the floor, he added. “It was… a long and slow death for each of them.” he reassured Nigel with a soul piercing, and serious gaze.

Standing up he picked up the flower, a single white tulip and placed it in a waiting vase by the windowsill. Turning back to the bed, he gather up the now empty tray. He didn’t tell Nigel, but in the language of flowers a white tulip meant forgiveness. Whether is was his way of forgiving or hoping that his brother could forgive him, he wasn’t sure. “What makes you think I wish to teach you anything at all?” He left his brother to think about his words, to clean up in the kitchen. Afterwords with everything straightened, he changed into clothes for the day, donning a more leisurely outfit than he would for the office. He left the suit jacket off for now, and wore no vest, his collar stayed open with no tie. Going back to the guestroom he leaned in the doorway looking his brother over. “You may get out of bed, only if you promise not to over exert yourself.” He wagged a knowing finger at Nigel’s protest. He held and ace bandage in one hand, and walked over to the edge of the bed. “Your wrist is sprained, I’ll bind it, but you mustn’t do anything lifting with that hand, do you understand.” it was a rhetorical question. Sitting on the bed, he carefully and expertly wrapped his brother’s hurt wrist, and secured it in place.

“I will be downstairs in the living room, if you should need me. Please try not to break anything.” He had a minuscule little knowing smirk on his face accompanied by an evil twinkle in his eyes. On his feet again he motioned to the closet behind him. “You may wear anything in there that you might find to your tastes.” It was a closet that held the clothes that he saved for when he thought he might get dirty. There was no way he was going to let Nigel rifle through the clothes in his own personal wardrobe. They were off limits… awkwardly he stood for a few moments by the foot the bed, unsure what to say, so he pivoted on his heel, and left. There was still so much left unsaid, that he wasn’t sure how to even begin to say. He was not very good at keeping relationships with others. While he was a charming people person, the were acquaintances all part of his disguise to be normal upstanding citizen. Letting his defenses down around Nigel was going to take some getting used to. He sat on the bench in front of his harpsichord, playing Bach, Prelude No. 1 in C major, BWV 846. There was a lot on his mind, and playing seemed to help him sort out his feelings. Maybe he had been a little ambitious breaking off his on-the-side affair, but he was still a little hopeful that things would work out between Nigel and him.

___

He couldn’t approve Hannibal’s more lavish, grandiose and perpetual ostentation that surrounded every inch of the mansion, but one thing he didn’t look in askance was the fact they shared interest in seeing eye to eye in one thing. When it comes to having unworthy individuals wiped out in the face of the earth as they saw fit, they were in an alignment. He hadn’t pleasured in harvesting organs, but he had seen just how much human body could go through through excruciating exertions. He wasn’t particularly fond of methods where blood didn’t involve and refused to participate in unnecessary means of violence that got nowhere such as waterboarding, but he liked to perceive every little paroxysms and turbulence the body went through with the depth of the knives’ penetration and the terminal velocity of the bullet’s projected path causing irreparable tissue and organ trauma. Partaking in raw animosity presented in a fountain of sparks, each dribble of blood turning into a propellant of concupiscence as young vampire sought to deplete the life supply. The reassuring words both helps and seals a scarring brand as it fails to take the burden and affliction over the fact that he had been astray all those years with anger, directed nowhere sustainable, facing his own debacles. If he had known the older twin’s plan all those years, the unbridled fury could have been checked and their lost connection would have soldered and fortified sooner than both of them going out of their boundary to improve their relationship. His gaze slightly seething, although there is naked sense of primal penetration within them, he shields himself from the onslaught of early morning light. “Who the fuck knows, you might be excoriating and percolating to render me useless with each day passing. I have utterly underestimated you and look where I fucking ended up.” Failing to maintain his equanimity, he contumaciously barks back to Hannibal’s behind, as the other disappears behind the guest room door. 

Feeling like he’s at a point of pendulous, two-way street with no pinpointed destination for him to get to, he broods over his decision. He had been so adamant when Darko insisted him to come back to Bucharest and cut his duration of the traveling drastically shortened. Not that he had any solidified itinerary, except a vague thought of tracking his brother down. A brief thought of phoning him fleets away from his mind when Hannibal reenters the room to treat him like an unruly child, grounded for indefinite amount of time without no adrenaline-fueling activities for him to take part in. Talons dig into his heart as the only explanation for his behavior he is exhibiting could be only translated as the sore loss of his full mobility, a sore resentment from the confrontation of the night before. “I’m not going to be lifting any corpses or trashing your cherished curios and antiques down in the dump with your stuffy fussy fit!” Hannibal’s vacillating and divided behavior continues to drive him to misconstrue the other’s true intentions. Every breath turns like heavy breathing of the angry bull, as inside, he feels like as if he has broken ribs. On the outside, except his gradually boiling anger that would be contained within him with nowhere else to be released, along with flushed face and patchy red blotches among his sharp prominent features, he grows even more petulant though he remains still when Hannibal fixes his sprained wrist. Snarling like a lion the whole time as a painful epiphany dawns. He just might forgive what Hannibal had done in the past, leaving him out in tracking the pigs down in bloody vengeance, but not this. His other hand curls into a fist under the blanket and as soon as the older twin pulls himself off from the bed, he immediately springs off too as he remains reticent, occasionally shooting up acrimonious gazes when he sees fit. 

Huffing a sigh in miff and finally coming to a conclusion that no amount of sharp retort would nick Hannibal’s grandiose ego, he bites back and ransacks the closet. Finding a suitable button-down to go along with the leather jacket stashed in the back of the bike for riding and form-fitting black trousers, he exhales an exasperated sigh as his dewlap stretches upward, groaning in frustration. Massaging his temples and then raking his ashen locks back, he thrusts his arm in a pendulum-like motion to get his injured arm through the sleeve. Zipping up the pants and not even bothering to fasten up all the buttons, he stomps downstairs after squeezing his feet into the oxfords with the revolver in his mind. The last time he checked it had been on the kitchen counter or nearby the sink before he got stabbed with the goddamn kitchen knife. Although he abhorred the idea of going off-line shopping without knowing the way like back of his hand, it would be tenfold better than being locked inside the house full of antediluvian antiques with an old geezer as its sole inhabitant. Sauntering inside the kitchen, past his concentrated brother, he rummages through every surface to begin his wild-goose chase. “What did you fucking do with my gun? I need it.” He mumbles behind his brother as an unlit cigarette sways between his pursed lips. “Now I wonder if you’ll be less of an old granny outside of this home. You’re more than fucking welcome to have a goddamn concert with no audience, let’s put a pin in the fucking talent show and do join me in a ride outside the city.”    


	11. Chapter 11

Sitting at the harpsichord, he makes a few notes on the sheet music before him. Hearing footfalls down the stairs, he doesn’t stop playing, nor does he turn around. It’s not until he hears banging around and rummaging in the kitchen does he pause hands poised over the keys. Turning around rigidly hearing Nigel shout from inside the other room. Just when he is about to get up, he see’s his brother waltz into the living room. “I hope you are done wrecking my kitchen.” He saw that his twin was dressed in some of his old clothes, and thought he looked rather handsome in them. Frowning, he stood up slowly, and walked closer to Nigel. “Where is it you plan on going, if I might ask?” Just for that smart ass remark about his playing he wasn’t going to give his brother the gun back any time soon. “I don’t think it is wise you ride your bike, the position will pull on your stitches and reopen the wound.” Licking a lip, and thought about it for a moment, debating on whether he wanted to be seen out of the house with his reprobate brother or not.

With tongue pressed up against his bottom teeth, he made a thoughtful face. “If you insist on going out, we can take my car. I insist on driving.” He wasn’t going to let his hot-headed twin get behind the wheel of his car… The idea of being see with his brother was also a new feeling since not a soul in his social circle knew that there was two of them. Not much good could come of them both being out at the same time, people would see them together. Then he would have a million questions to deal with. He could refuse and keep him cooped up in the house for a few more days. It was a very tempting thought, one that he had done before… under different circumstances. Like a bird in a bath ruffling its feathers, he shook himself into action. There was no sense keeping him confined to the house, it didn’t seem fair. If he wanted to patch of their relationship, he was going to have to make some compromises. With a little intake of breath, he adjusted the cuff of the dress shirt he was wearing. “Allow me to go change, and then we shall go out.” Lips set in a thin line, he turned on his heel and walked briskly out of the room.

Up stairs in his room, he couldn’t decide on what to wear. He could go more casual since he was with Nigel, or he could go extreme and set himself apart. The best solution would be to dress down since the last thing he wanted was to draw more attention to himself than necessary. It was early spring and still yet chilly out, the wind mostly was what sent a breeze right through you. So he put on a grey sweater over top of his dress shirt, and a dark blazer completed the outfit. He left the tie off, and checked in the mirror, to make sure he looked presentable. Swiftly he moved into the guestroom, and found a black beanie hat, not for himself. With hat in hand he moved downstairs at a leisurely pace. He walked into the kitchen, to straighten out the mess Nigel left there. It took all of his willpower not to let his temper rise. He didn’t like that his twin just came through and decided it was a good idea to rip the whole place apart to look for a gun. He looked up to see Nigel standing in the entrance of the kitchen. “So where did you have in mind, for your little outing? Oh and please put this on.” He walked over and pulled the beanie out of his blazer pocket. He straightened out his outfit after cleaning up the kitchen giving his twin a look that said he wouldn’t hear it.  

____

“Not fucking done making it a fucking body shop with scrap metals if it takes to find my goddamn gun, what the fuck have you done with it?!” Like a charging bull towards the matador, he fumes angrily as he rummages through every drawer and orifice possible. Not leaving any stones upturned, he smacks the overhead cupboard shut and storms out through the back door towards the porch to light the cigarette. Watching the dancing curlicue of the smoke as he drags deep, the onslaught of nicotine does little to calm himself. Growing red and the sighing wind grazing between his exposed strip of skin not helping the surging heat to subside, he sharply turns to reenter the house, only to smack his injured shoulder against the half-open glass door. “FUCK!” Mumbling more profanities in Romanian, he forcefully slides the glass door shut with a single annoyed sweep, the blunt momentum sending the door to half open just as he hisses in derision. “If I am about to inhabit in this fucking Victorian granny’s house with these bleak clothes which looks like color of fucking puked regurgitation, then I’d rather make myself productive and buy some wearable clothes.” At the disclosure of not being able to ride his bike, as he hadn’t thought of ripping off his stitches nor had thought it would be too fraught with danger, the last thing he wants is to prolong the torture of not being able to do few things he dearly loves. 

“See what you have just fucking done. You have stripped me of my few and only pleasures that would at least offer short-lived pleasure to bear the fucking blunt to live with a goddamn old fart.” Setting his teeth tight, he lets out a grunting hiss of frustration before power smoking through the cigarette. Thrusting the door open yet again and facing outside, all the chirping and beautiful scenery and the overwhelming scent of fragrant herbs and vegetation beginning to sprout only manages to egg on his irritation of having his dominant hand to turn into an useless limb of fucking club. Pinching the ends of the stub with his left index and thumb, he tosses it into the sink before looking over his shoulder, letting the fresh stream of air in. “Insist, insist! You like to have fucking dibs on anything and everything. Whatever goddamn expensive as fuck car you own, I’m sure the car is a fucking extension of your  _ grandiose  _ self.” An abhorrent drawl stretches to offer a contumely remark, his head shakes with his body language growing defensive. To take into his body’s consideration, his right arm seems to beseech to follow Hannibal’s ‘insistence,’ matching his raging anger, tender and vice-like pain radiates as if unperturbed lake had undulated with skipping rock. 

All the past conflicts and re-encounters aside, his patience grows thin, as the clock continues to tick on his acquiescence. After Hannibal’s footsteps become a faint ghost of his presence, he abandons his plan to upturn every surface of the kitchen to look for a false latch or some kind of contraption over the walls. As he takes in the threshold of the space with comparable serenity, now few pieces of unsolved mystery pieces together in his head; without any quaint attractiveness of the usually inviting ambiance, the revelation dawns now that his older twin had concealed his transgressive activities with stark strictness. He also had just taken notice, as beside from state-of-the-art kitchen appliances, the cold hues and marble counter-tops along with the stainless steel, most likely custom-made, had evoked the sense of autopsy table, confirming the twin’s pun about transferring his love of anatomy into cooking. Snooping pointlessly around to search for the gun that went poof, his eyes narrow as he rambles through the living room, until Hannibal straightens the disorder he had caused. “I have no fucking idea, you’re the one who have lived in this bloody city for close to two decades. Anywhere there’s casual clothes, no fucking shopping malls, I fucking hate those.” Skeptically raising an eyebrow, he sullenly grumbles as he gives the older twin a prolonged sidelong glance. Pursing his lips in annoyance, he snatches the beanie and lopsidedly tugs it on, before shoving his wallet and crumpled cigarette pack inside the side pocket of his trousers. “Now I look like a fucking old grandpa you managed to shove inside one of those fucking bloody retired community or a blood motherfucking match-head.” In full of chagrin, he storms past the portico as he tramples through the driveway to retrieve his jacket from the bike. 


	12. Chapter 12

Since they were going out, he thought it would be the perfect opportunity to introduce Nigel to his tailor. He wanted to have some clothes tailored for his brother, and maybe at least one bespoke suit. He wanted his twin to look presentable for when they were out and about together. It was going to be a long day, and only made more drawn out by Nigel’s defiant personality. After turning off lights, and gather his keys and phone, he plucks an overcoat of the coat rank near the door. His brother had already stomped outside to where his bike was. He followed at an easy leisurely pace, locking the lock behind him. Not waiting he bee lined right for the Bentley and got in the driver’s seat, and waited for his twin now wearing a leather jacket; to get in. A tiny little smirk quirked the corner of his lips, Nigel was looking roguishly charming in a black beanie and leather jacket. While he himself would never pair those two articles of clothing together, his brother managed to make it work. While sitting in his car, he started the engine, and the radio came on instantly. It was playing a cd of Frank Sinatra’s greatest hits.

When Nigel finally got in the car, he ignored his grouchy remarks about the music playing, and pulled away from the house. It wouldn’t take long for them to reach his tailor’s shop, as it was relatively close to his house. Being only a few blocks over, he turned the music volume way down, and glanced at his brother. “If you wouldn’t mind, I would appreciate if you were on your best behavior.” Training his eyes back on the road he continued, before his twin could start complaining again. “We are going to my tailor, and I have been with them for a very long time. I do not wish to get on bad terms with them as I value their work.” It was as close as Nigel would get to a ‘please’ from him, he expected that his brother could take a hint. It would be very bad for his twin to act like a complete hooligan while at a place of business that he valued. The punishment for acting out in public, would be far worse than anything that happened to him when they had fought in the kitchen. Sparing one more glance at his brother, he sensed that something was bothering him. To was too late to ask, as they were now at their destination. 

Turning off the radio, he pulled into a space close to the small shop. It was the best tailor in Baltimore, with rave reviews. He had been a loyal customer of theirs since his early days as an emergency room surgeon. “If you see anything at all you like, I will have it tailored for you, it’s on me. It.. is the least I can do, consider it payment for the shirt, and for causing you bodily harm.” He knew that a few pieces of clothing and a suit or two would not make up for hurting Nigel, but he hoped it was at least a peace offering to opening up further communication between them. Things were still tentative, and he did not want to push his brother into talking if he did not wish to do so. In his own time, he was sure that his brother would start to open up to him again. Taking a deep breath, and letting it out of his nose, he got out of the car, and locked it. Confidently he strode into the tailor shop. He had a well tailored smile alight on his face, turning into the good doctor that he presented himself as to the world. A bell above the door chimed out delicately, and he greeted the owner cheerfully. “Hello Nicky.” He shook the tailor and owner’s hand firmly, and saw the look he got, as he glanced over his shoulder. “Ah yes, allow me to introduce my brother Nigel.” 

____

Shrugging on the leather jacket in the same fashion as he did with the button-down shirt, the restrictive movement causes him to fuss and be a crosspatch. Lips thinned lopsidedly, he sets his jaw and bites inside of his right cheek as he flings the passenger side door open, slamming shut as soon as he situates himself without banging his shoulder someplace again. Still blowing steam and wanting to break something but registering it had been not the right time nor the situation to let off his fuse, he shoves a stubborn lock pricking his eyelids inside the beanie and remains reticent. With his arms crossed in front of his chest and tipping to throw his head against the headrest, he grumbles to himself in Romanian at Hannibal’s drastically different preference of music. Going along with his roguish and brazen personality, he had always preferred music with heavy percussion and thick amplification. He always linked to connect himself with the aggression and machismo, with infatuation towards hip-hop and grudge elements as well. The lyrics ‘ _ don't wanna be rude but I have to, nothing's good about the hell you put me through, _ ’ immediately surfaces towards his whirling ocean of mind which still furors with gale. Well, the innate rudeness comes naturally as his pestersome behavior would be hard to be abated evermore.  

A mischievous smirk tilting his lips, his unnatural smile spreads awkwardly throughout his facade as he shoots his twin a dubious sidelong gaze. “Oh, I’ll put out my foremost fucking best behavior.” Tossing his head in a petulant manner at the words of going to the tailor, he pouts in an offended mood and remains silent like his whole scheme would be. He would give Hannibal his own fucking medicine, as he hadn’t any decision over where they could go. He would rather get a monthly catalog of leather apparel and order things on-line, but without any of his electronics with him, the next option, getting out of that grandiose ostentation of a Vampire mansion had been his second-best alternative. Just about sick of being treated like an unruly child reprimanded and disciplined for every single move he makes, he stays broodingly silent, until he swallows. As his adam’s apple wobbles, a faint droplet of blood seeps out from the torn sutures, seeping through the bandage, just enough for him to feel the wetness graze his inflamed and itchy jaggedness. Wanting more to get out of the car than anything else, he ignores that imperceptible gaze and literally hurtles himself out of the vehicle as if he had been abducted and getting off on his feet after a torturous ride. 

“No amount of fucking money would reconcile and make up what you have done to me.” Maybe his too point-blank, brusque approach of confronting his brother with a barrel of his revolver targeted at the other’s heart had been over the top, but it had double entendre. As much as his blood reached its boiling point, he wasn’t completely liberated from his own share of nightmares. No, he didn’t fear the oblivion-like darkness. Being a nocturnal down to his bones, it was his accustomed routine to crash and hit the sack along with the dawn of light slanting through the unkempt mattress, along with entangled sheets. Somewhat estranged distance between him and Mischa availed little to further the gap and the intensity of the nightmare. He wasn’t going to have his virile, red-blooded nature collapse in the castle of sand with such a discriminating ‘accusation,’ nor admit it had bothered him beyond meddling up his quotidian life. Nor in front of his persnickety twin who begins to introduce him to the man who had been introduced as Nicky. With blood seeping out aside, he wasn’t definitely going to thank Hannibal for letting him have considerable amount and quality sleep, albeit the aid of the drug which his brother still administered without his consent. “Mm.. Mmhmm.”  _ You fucking heard him. _ Clasping his hand firmly and giving a curt nod, he pokes Hannibal’s side multiple times and points laser with his eyes, the all-black wool suit with subtle hue difference along the lapels and collars. The single-breasted, two-button one with peaked lapels and another one with charcoal gray, more versatile all-around one, which is much more form-fitting with narrowed waist. Pressing both garments against his frame, he points with his chin and spreads an easy grin at both the tailor and his brother.  _ Let’s get this fucking over with and get the fuck outta here.    _


	13. Chapter 13

After everyone was introduced things happened very quickly. Hannibal ordered Nigel around, and instructed for him to have his full measurements taken. The owner and main tailor Nicky was completely baffled that their was two Lecter’s, instead of just one. “You two really are identical, amazing.” the tailor looked Nigel over as he wrapped a measuring cord around his twin’s waist. He noticed that his brother was not talking, and concluded that he was giving him the silent treatment. So be it, if he wanted to act like a child he would treat him like a child. “Indeed, you’ll find that our personalities make up for what our looks do not.” He told his tailor cheerfully. He was still playing the good doctor, and making pleasant small talk. While Nicky finished up with Nigel, he walked around the shop examining the suits, and different blazers on display. He himself had everything custom made, and often times would pitch ideas to the tailor for new designs for his collection. When Nicky asked his twin what it was that he did for a living, he was right there to answer before Nigel could even open his mouth and say something awful. “He is a private investigator from Romania, on Holiday, we haven’t seen each other in a long time.”

The owner looked at Nigel rather impressed, and commented. “Fascinating professions must run in your family.” The man chatted away merrily and asked Nigel if he carried a gun. Inwardly he groaned, and told his tailor. “He isn’t very talkative, always been a shy boy haven’t you, Nigel.” The irony was that he couldn’t get him to shut up when it was important, but now he wasn’t talking when he needed him to. He squeezed his twin’s shoulder just over where the knife wound was, and standing so close he could smell the coppery tang of blood. When Nicky when into the back he doubled checked and went out to his car, and opened the trunk of the Bentley and took out a spare medical bag. Walking quickly he held the bell over the door, so it didn’t make a sound again on the way back in. Overly loud he said to that his voice would carry. “Why don’t you try this blazer on for me, Nigel.” Plucking a random coat off the rack, he shoved Nigel towards the open and waiting fitting room and locked them both inside. There was a death glare coming off of his twin, and sensing a backlash of profane remarks, he held a finger to his lips and hushed his twin.

Unexpectedly he said in their native tongue. “Leiskite patikrinti žaizdą .” Hoping it was enough to catch his brother off guard to get him to start talking again. He hung the blazer he held up on a peg, and turned to pull back Nigel’s leather jacket. He could see that blood had soaked through the bandage, so he donned a pair of rubber gloves, and opened his bag. He unbuttoned his twin’s shirt, and used alcohol wipes to remove the medical tape painlessly. He didn’t want to agitate the wound further. “Jūs turite būti atsargūs .” He had a feeling that he must have bummed the wound, to reopen a few of the stitches. He couldn’t have him opening the sutures every day, it would slow down the healing process and ruin his plans for any actives that he had planned for the future. He cleaned the wound, inspected the stitches, and doubled the bandage to soak up the blood. He was lucky that it wasn’t bleeding enough to soak into the shirt. Feeling sentimental, he strokes Nigel’s cheek, after removing his gloves. The powder from the inside making his hand soft, and his skin slide over his brother’s cheekbone like the feel of a flower petal. Looking down briefly, not meeting the look Nigel gave him, he let his eyelids droop barely staying open. “Aš nenorėjau sukelti skausmą , už jus.” It held a double meaning for him, as he was talking about both 19 years ago, and recently during their fight.   

___

_ Who the fuck he was kidding? _ The garments he had been holding in both of his firm grasp had been samples, much too small against his broader expanse of shoulders and taller frame. Hurtling both hangers over towards the armchair opposite him and feeling more like a deflated balloon, he huffs a long earth-shattering sigh and a quick, unnoticeable mutter to himself in Romanian before getting every inch of his body measured. Within that short expanse of time, he could literally count just how many times his eyeballs have rolled like a cue ball on the billiard table and his whole conscience the artistic billiards of precision multiple rail-kicking, jumps and massés, all jumbled as his scheme seems to boomerang right back at him. Fighting both the boredom and intensive measuring as his stance slowly droops, he struggles to hold up his usual exuding confidence as the burning and prickling affliction strikes as a clap of a lightning. With all the thorough measurements taken as he registers that there would be no goddamn compromise with this stuck-up vain of a brother, it wouldn’t be the first time of him dragged unwillingly and against his resolution. Even if he tears the goddamn stitches in the midst of the highway, the only person to blame for is himself, as much as he condemns himself for putting a fucking pin to the talent show. It would have been better to let the snobby twin have his own damn fun, instead of him take control of this backlash to turn him into a whining child.

He could literally see his sharp cheekbones as his brows tightly pinch, he raises both a skeptical and intriguing eyebrow at the choice of the profession Hannibal had picked to downright lie to the tailor. Who would’ve fucking thought the obnoxious and big-mouthed twin had once been a damn fucking mute. Shooting him an angrily piercing glare which turns to sharp icicles, his lips ajar in disbelief before trying to show the backside… Only to realize his revolver is missing from the usual location. Instinctively, his hand had made a gesture to grasp onto the gold-encased grip, smoothed like an old calfskin, just like the one he had been wearing. Inwardly butting in and barking ‘ _ You bloody prevaricator! you’re the one who had been the one fucking ginormous bookworm nerd with characteristic awkwardness in any social situations,’ _ he tries to quench the bubbling anger by imagining the time when he had to tear Hannibal’s clothes off because he had worn a fucking pea coat with toggles at the club he frequented. When he’s just about to wind down and decides to push on with his silent treatment, with Hannibal’s firm grip against the injured shoulder, he lets out a venomous hiss of a viper as pins and needles sweep over the shoulder blade. With both Nicky and Hannibal’s attention diverted to somewhere else, he literally raps strings of profanities through his clenched teeth. “ _ La dracu fiu de cățea, care sunt dracu’ să -mi da ordine ca un copil răutăcios nenorocit. _ .” Stretching his arms like a giant falcon spreading his wingspan only to be afflicted with the undulating tenderness and another throb of unmistakable blood permeating through the bandage, he grouchily enters the fitting room. Completely having his shit hit the fan, he grumbles through his clenched teeth as he pushes the thought of biting the finger that attempts to shush him. “What the bloody fucking hell do you think you’re doing?”

Although he hadn’t spoken Lithuanian ever since he left the orphanage, the familiarity and both conservative nature of language immediately becomes that of a nostalgia. The language itself takes on bright colors, his mind consumed by all, remembering how tight-knit he had been with the concept of home, although he felt more or less abandoned both by his siblings and parents. Through thick and thin, it had stuck with him only to be plucked in a right occasion. “ _ Kodėl, po velnių, tu negali man pasakyti iš anksto, jums kvailas asilas?”  _ The cool alcohol wipe against his irritated and swollen pinkish red skin has his shoulder unconsciously draw back from intrusion, the all-so acquainted sensation of pain and recovery. Puckering his lips tight into a thinned line, he suddenly blurts out in Romanian. “ _ Nu naibii juca cu emoțiile mele și să încerce să mă manipuleze _ .” Although he realizes Hannibal doesn’t speak the language, he might catch on the ‘manipulation’ part, so he equivocates the last word. Growing indecisive to whether to slap his twin or just walking away in reticence, and unknowing if this had also been an artful management with his defiant personality, he snakes his left arm around Hannibal’s back and presses half of his torso against his twin. “There’s not a fucking thing to be sorry about, it just happened and you can’t fucking reverse time.” The answer itself is rather noncommittal and evasive. With what happened nineteen years ago? He would do anything and every fucking thing to reduce the amount of their separation, but the fight itself will be the one to tarnish their relationship like a sticking out sore thumb. Donning the blazer Hannibal had taken, he cannot help but to spread a faint smile at the choice of material and color. Fit contours along his body like a current of air sweeping through his lean frame with no resistance and it’s easy to move around with a bit of a room for a possible layer underneath it. “Get my fucking jacket and do whatever you want with the suit. I don’t even care, I just want to go back to our house now.” Perhaps he had reversed his position about so adamantly getting out of the house, but he wasn’t going to glut and accept all things from the snobby twin all at once.  


	14. Chapter 14

His brows pinch a fraction at the words Nigel choose to use. It is not something he wanted to hear. Not being able to reverse time, the idea that it would never happen, it shot a dart through his heart. Pushing those thoughts away for another time, he packs his things back into his medical bag. For once he does as Nigel asks, and picks up his jacket as his twin stomps out of the fitting room. Draping the leather coat over the medical bag, he steps out, taking in everything. Eyes sweep the room, not another soul is in the little shop, Nigel had went out to the car, having stormed out like a petulant child. He lets out a breath of air, he hadn’t realized he was holding. Something about having his brother around him all of the time made him a bit tense. Patiently he waits for Nicky to return from the backroom. In no hurry he pays for the blazer that Nigel took with him and takes a card with the date that he can come pick up the new suit he had ordered for his twin. Tucking the card into the breast pocket of his jacket, he thanks his tailor for his time and casually heads back out to the car. Keys in hand he presses a button to open the trunk and puts the medical bag back where it belongs. Then moves into the driver’s seat, passing Nigel his jacket without a word.

In silence he starts up the bentley and pulls out of the parking space. The whole way home he keeps his mouth shut, it seems that their roles were now reversed. It would appear that the more talking that he did that greater the strain on their relationship became. It hurt to know that no matter what he did, they were still holding onto grudges and both set in their ways now at almost 40 years old. It bothered him like a thorn in his side, not having control over the situation. All he really wanted was for their relationship to be what it once was. At this point he didn’t know if that was possible, but he did not want to do anything to further cause separation. He did not turn the music on, because he didn’t want to provoke the wrath of Nigel’s temper. After pulling into the driveway, and parking the car, he gets out not even waiting for his brother. He unlocks his door, hangs up his overcoat, and places his keys in their rightful place. He insists on routine and order, and having Nigel around made him break his routines and it bothered him. Probably more than it should have, but that couldn’t be helped. It was hard coping with the idea of having someone in your personal space all of the time now. He wasn’t used to it, but he was adapting, slowly.

Cooking always put him at ease, it relaxed him, and allowed him to think of happier days. Of when he first started experimenting with the culinary arts. Days spent in a flat in Paris with Nigel as his guinea pig, too easy to please, with simple french dishes. Cooking comfort food from home, and letting Nigel lick the spoon, because he knew it was what he would like. Taking off his blazer, he hung it from a peg on the wall and instead took an apron, and tied it around his waist. He pulled the sweater he wore off and folded it neatly and set it off to the side far out of the way. He rolled up his sleeves he started pulling ingredients out of the refrigerator. While it wasn’t his intention to give Nigel the cold shoulder, he needed to do this, he felt like if he didn’t cook something he would kill someone, and he had more important things to do than plan a murder while his brother was still angry with him in his- our house… It sounded strange in his head, Nigel already calling the house theirs. Pulling out bowls, and mixers, trays, and measuring cups he got to work making small _mille-feuille_ cakes, with intricate designs combed onto the tops. It had been a very long time since he baked anything that was a pie or a cake, and he now was trying his best to do something for Nigel that required no talking…     

 

\---

 

All his memory collections of Polaroid shots, ingrained through every crease and thump of his heart with each palpitating heartbeat, materializes into short segments of clips. The fast-forwarded days he had spent in the Parisian flat along with Hannibal. The treacherous memory had its sinister magic upon it; the most contented ones were all too evanescent, whereas the most traumatic memories would be like a flaw in his code, a metastasizing virus in his heart that would linger through every inch of his vein. With him less tarnished with years of criminal activities and loss of innocence, things had escalated rather quickly with Hannibal’s departure to the States. Same with the orphanage when everything took a downward spiral when he had left Hannibal to deal with all the spectacularly horrible contingencies. The sheer degree of bullying might have gotten escalated without absence of his obstinate defiance, or rapidly subsided as there wouldn’t be any resistance coming from his mute twin. Even with Hannibal’s presence, it felt like the other wasn’t a warm body pressed against him. His older twin felt more like a cold wall he would retreat back to in his fitful sleep. The tactile sensation is more reminiscent of frigid Lithuanian winter. Too naive and guileless about the outside world, still being a kid without the burden of responsibilities weight of the world upon his shoulders, the realization dawned too late when the merciless snowstorm once struck the ground and he had been forced to drift along with the gale-like wind. Biting and turning prickling pins and needles with each movement. Bundled up in a tight ball with his arms clutched under his armpits, only subtle lick of wind has his body to tremor furiously as teeth clatter uncontrollably. Even when his body jeopardizes with severe hypothermia as eyelids grow heavy as gradually lowering metal shutters, the thought of them never crossing each other again looms over his subconscious like a noxious fog. Hannibal overwhelms and consumes his mind like a plague, more like a surge of rushing adrenaline that is only keeping him conscious. _The comforting bump of their skin when fast asleep, how his twin smells, his skin feels, his chin pressing against the older twin’s shoulder blade and how they had unknowingly shared kisses underneath the cocoon of too thin duvet when they had been locked inside with even worse snowstorm than this_. 

Smoothing a hand over his shoulder, and almost seizing the jacket back from Hannibal’s hold, his mind noisily whirls as he recalls their recent confrontation. Narrowed eyes remain tightly shut, as if he didn’t want none of the extraneous sensation preventing him from plucking him out from the stream of elapsed time. With his arms crossed with fingers entwined tight into a mound, his body sways gently, almost unnoticeable for the whole duration of the drive. One thing he brings to a conclusion for sure is that they had opportunities and choices right in front of their very eyes and whether the result had been self-fulfilling or calamitous or both, what he had done wasn’t even worth the hard-learned lessons, mostly in maturity. Perhaps the world had been trying to tell them they were nothing without each other and they were not worthy of seeking their desires and theirs alone. The separation and living their lives away from each other didn’t make him to be a sitting duck and without the blood tie, the other had refused to die in his memory. Hannibal’s words of gutting him like a fish loops around in repeat. Perhaps if his physical health had been imperiled, then his whole mind wouldn’t have to be locked behind impenetrable bars of the past. He doesn’t immediately follow Hannibal into the house. The foreign images, all the considerably clashing aesthetics and how much they have taken an irreversible path of opposition twists a blade in his shoulder. Along with that completed thought, he grows restless like a ravenous predator. A black leopard locked in confines of bigger, badder cats, in the forms of demons from their shared past. 

Power-smoking through a cigarette as usually calming agent and gesture does nothing to relieve the tense uneasiness, he slams the passenger side of the door shut. With bundled overcoats and purchased blazer over the crook of his arm, he hurls them towards the lounge as soon as he whams the door, the sound drowning out with the stomping of his foot through the living room. Even with the crisp chilled weather, a coat of sweat clings around his upper torso as he sheds one more layer of clothes, leaving him only in his button-down from Hannibal’s closet. Not even batting an eyebrow nor taking his unblinking orbs off Hannibal’s figure like a honing viewfinder of a sharpshooter’s riveting gaze, he swings open the refrigerator to rummage for any alcoholic drink. Finding what seems like a homemade bottled-up beer, he uncorks the clasp around the bottleneck and takes a long, heat-quenching guzzle. Still remaining brooding and reticent, his sharp, darting gaze fixates upon all the accouterments Hannibal had laid upon the center counter. Clambering just behind Hannibal with a laser-like intensity burning through the expanse of his back, Nigel situates on the bar stool with a death grip upon the beer bottle, the heat alone from his body already condensing around his palm, dripping onto the marbled surface. With his elbows perched firm on it, the creases on his forehead and the bridge of his nose deepens. A minute down tilt of his lips the only faint sign of his displease. The lightning charge builds up behind the diaphanous and slightly bloodshot hazel, with rubicund cheeks as his hawk-like gaze trails every subtle movement Hannibal makes. “So you are just going to resolutely become a fucking mute again, and since when did you ever have your fucking nose buried in baking and having _such a blast_ while doing it? You should know better, I do have a fucking soft spot for nuts, as you have a penchant for driving me fucking nuts!” 


	15. Chapter 15

He was just starting to make the pastry cream, when Nigel came stomping into the house. He could hear him from the kitchen that was how loud he was being. The corner of of his left eye twitched a fraction in annoyance, but pushed away all of his anger. He was cooking, and he wasn’t about to let his twin ruin the delicate puff pastry that he was working on. Not even when his brother comes into the kitchen and starts rummaging through the fridge; does he say anything. He keeps his mouth shut, and trains his face into an unreadable mask. He chooses to remain silent also, when his twin opens one of his experimental first bottles of his home-brewed beer. At the moment he had fine thin sheets of pastry in the oven baking, and being weighted down to keep it thin, flat and even. Leaning forward over the center island, he has both hands resting on the counter holding his upper body up. With a sigh he pushes himself away from the marble counter top not even sparing a glance at Nigel. If he looks at him, he was liable to get even more annoyed, and bad things could happen in the case. Opening the fridge he takes out a bowl of fresh strawberries, and with a paring knife he starts to cut them into thin neat little slices for garnish between the layers of the thin flaky pastry.  

The whole time he is preparing the beautifully red berries, he can sense Nigel watching his every move like a hawk. His twin’s eyes boring a hole into the back of his head. He had taken the golden brown pastry layers out of the oven to cool off while he finished up cutting strawberries. When Nigel comments about his choice to be silent, the mention of being mute again, sets his to teeth to grind, and the corner of his lip curl up in a snarl. He could have stabbed his twin again just for that retort. He promises himself that he would at least finish the fine mille-feuille cake first before he does anything too rash. He took a sip of wine from a glass he had near at hand. It was almost time for him to start cooking lunch, but he wasn’t in the mood, nor was he hungry at that moment. When he thought Nigel would stop, and leave it at that, his brother continues to push his buttons. Closing his eyes he pushes the bowl of cut berries away from him farther onto the counter, his knuckles go white at how tight he is gripping the small knife. Suddenly letting go of the blade, he pivots on his heel, and turns to start assembling the cake, ignoring the rest of his twin’s scathing words. When Nigel finishes by telling him to add nuts to the cake because he drives him nuts, he turns back around giving his brother a death glare.

He could have crushed the glass of wine he held in the middle of his fist. He was so fucking pissed off. The last words of Nigel echo over and over in his head building up and boiling over. Out of nowhere he throws the glass and its remaining contents at the nearest cabinet, shards of glass splinter and fly every which way all over the floor. White wine, drips down the wooden surface to pool on the floor in a small puddle. “Cease and desist! Must you worry at me like a dog with a bone?” He voice raised almost to yelling tones, when he said it. He is so angry he could have chewed the shattered glass for all that it was worth. “What is it you want from me my dear brother? Is it still a grudge you hold against me for leaving France to come to Baltimore to finish my schooling?” Turning and waiting for a reply, he started to finish assembling the dainty cake, spreading pastry cream between the thin layers, adding strawberry slices for color and decoration. He was quiet again after his outburst. The mess on his right side was starting to bother him, and so before finishing the last touch to the mille-feuille he got the broom out and cleaned up the broken pieces of glass. He was now short a wine glass in that crystal set, and he’d have to go buy a whole new set. He couldn’t have an uneven number of wine glasses. The harden, creased lines of his forehead and around his eyes slowly smoothed out as his temper dispersed like steam. “Qui n’avance pas, recule” He said at last speaking in French all hints of anger now gone. 

___

Desperate to extinguish the bubbling anger akin to the mantle of the earth, it is all-consuming and without any means to stop it. Well-aware of how his body operates, there wouldn’t be no on and off switch or for letting the overfill become dormant. He was a walking emotion wrecking ball; every orifices and appendages governed by pent-up anger, reaching its pinnacle as the twin treats him with yet another streak of silent treatment. Hannibal should know better, as that had been one of the most pivotal reason of their two-year separation. Taking a longer quaff with no way of mending up the cracked surface of his subconscious, he could feel the sweat gracing around his hairline like dewy spring morning. Letting the little tremors ripple through the expanse of his skin as the sweeping wind grazes upon it, he pushes the thought of smacking Hannibal’s head with the bottle, still clutched as it had been the one and only means of preventing himself from completely losing it. No amount of blood will solve this simple conundrum; it was all of the accumulation from the past. The demolished infrastructure of the building would need to be fortified and inspected, before reconstructing the basis for another vehemence that would soar through the skyline.  _ Fate had its cruel circumstances _ .  

He could taste the subtle note of the beer with more clarity, now that he had been excreting his emotion like his artery had been cut. Each erratic and rapid palpitation prods the flame aglow inside his core. This step felt like a crucial occurrence for a rite of communion - they had gone through it once, when their brains weren’t too solidified with their own formulation of philosophies and outlook on life. The malleability of softened clay now completely hardened; it would take more attempt for both of them to pick up innumerable shattered pieces and putting them back together in an incomplete-able puzzle. His own reciprocating laser-like, unblinking orbs turn broken arrows; there’s still toxicity inside it. However, It’s more self-inflicting, rather than intending to harm his twin. Serving as a serrated dull edge of the sword, knowing that this particular muteness is by choice, not under his agonizing punishment of his own wretched body, putting up a impenetrable layer of defense mechanism. His lingering inclination, subjected to violence and blood, continues to maim his judgment; better to his moral judgment, his perched frame frees from the stool, to snatch the bowl full of cut strawberries and munch upon them, which he does. 

“It was so easy back then when our minds weren’t set in fucking stone. I still remember as clear as a day, you were just finishing telling me your muteness wasn’t by your fucking choice and I came to a conclusion that I might have been too fucking impulsive.” It had taken literally five minutes and now at loggerheads as they butted heads all the time, and as he tries to knot still unfinished thought etching a destructive path upon the bundle of veins as the percolating anger refuses to pass through the pores, Hannibal’s outwardly display of anger somehow brings a pleased curl onto his lips. How ironic that Hannibal was putting every ounce of his composure together to finish that fucking stupid cake which no one will ever eat? Putting down the fruit bowl with a loud clank, he quietly unfastens the button-up shirt from the hem, letting it part and slip off his broad shoulders as he continues to hover around his brother like a falcon closing in the distance with its prey. “Well, that and this fucking abominable atrocity!” To his great surprise, his undertone is much more subdued, disproportionate to his anger, turning from lava to pumice. It had been imperceptible to his sight nor hound-like nose, and he thought he had been bleeding through the bandage once again. All he could scent from himself are faint layer of sweat, stale nicotine and cloying scent of adrenaline, akin to cherry blossom scattered about the dampened ground from drizzle. “Fuck forward and backward, dumbass, you’re bleeding.” With his jaw set tight and lips straightened, he beckons with his chin before dawdling around the corner of the counter, retrieving a folded towel.     


	16. Chapter 16

In all the things going on, baking this delicate cake, and showing way more emotion than he would have liked, he cut himself on a piece of glass. He hadn’t even noticed it with all the anger coursing through his veins. Now that he is calm again, he can feel the slow and steady throb of pain where the shard slices his hand. It must have been when he was cleaning up the mess when his temper had not yet abated. Blood was starting to slowly drip down the side of his hand from the small lesion. There wasn’t a lot of blood, but it was sliding down his fingertips, turning his hand facing up, to catch the blood, so that it didn’t get on anything, he stared blanking at Nigel while his brother grabbed a small hand towel. Taking the towel from his twin, he nodded his thanks, with a little acknowledged shake of his head. “Thank you, Nigel.” His tone was defeated, and tired sounding. Wiping the blood from his hand, he walked over to the large sink near the dishwasher, and turned on the warm water. He washed out the minor slice on the outside of his palm. Folding the towel over he patted the area dry, and gave it a good once over. Determining that he did not need stitches, he reached under the sink digging in the cabinet. Pulling out a little first aid kit that he kept hidden in the back, he opened the container and laid out the contents. He used neosporin on the cut, then added liquid bandage over top to seal the wound, so that he could finish the mille-feuille.  

Turning back to Nigel, he looked him over carefully. He did not know what he was going to do with his unruly brother. He was like a child or more fitting an animal that could not be told what to do. He thought he might have better luck training monkeys how to read. Rolling his shoulders, he licked his bottom lip, blinking his eyes slowly like a cat. “Let us ignore the fact that you called me a name like a preschooler would, I am going to finish the last touches on this cake. After I am done, we are going to have a talk.” Turning away from his brother, he packed up the first aid kit and put it back where it belongs. The blood soaked towel, he tossed into the sink to soak in cold water. Washing his hands, went back to his baking pursuit, and finished putting royal icing on top of the cake, cutting a neat and intricate design into the top, by dragging a knife across it lightly. After the icing was set, he cut down the sides, trimming the cake, spinning it on a little cake wheel, to make it look perfect. Finished he put a glass dome lid over top and put the whole thing in the refrigerator. He cleaned up the last of the mess from the kitchen, and put everything back in its place, he washed out the bowl that held the strawberries, noting that his twin had taken care of any left overs. Glancing up at the clock it was just after noon, and he was getting hungry. 

He made up his mind to make a quick lunch of the two of them, before it got too late. “Are you hungry Nigel? I am, so I will make us something quick to eat.” He opened the fridge and got out Gruyère cheese, and his homemade Prosciutto. “Be so kind as to go into the pantry there, and get us two brioche rolls, main shelf, top left.” He pointed to the door opposite the island in the kitchen where he stood, while he grated the cheese into a small glass bowl. Moving around the kitchen he heated up a griddle and waited for Nigel to return with the small french pastries. After his twin returned with the requested items. He set about making french style grilled cheese with prosciutto. It didn’t take long, as the bread toasted on the griddle, he got two plates, and opened a jar of his own jarred pickles, and placed one half on each plate. Once the grilled cheese was done he cut the sandwiches in half, and set a plate down in front of Nigel who took his seat on a bar stool again. Taking off his apron, he put it in the kitchen linen basket, and got them both a bottle of his home-brewed beer. Sitting next to his brother he ate in the kitchen for once. It had been a very long time since he hadn’t sat at his dining table to have a meal. His brother’s bad habits must have been wearing off on him, or maybe he was just more relaxed around his twin. Wiping his hands on a cloth napkin, and looked at Nigel. “I’d like to show you something when we are finished.”     

___

With his entire body coiling up in tenseness, he could feel the little pulsation tingle along the stitches as they gradually stretch. With him always in a state of being constantly and (almost) completely raw with each surge of emotion (with the right kind of people) had its perks; like a good pair of well-made leather jacket and along with his careful tending, his overbrimming vessel of fury had a tendency to not go beyond being irreparable and ultimately, imploding to turn against its creator. Devoid of any emotion permeating through his facial muscles, he plasters his hand upon Hannibal’s own with his own twitch of head. Right now, the aggravated anger was beyond the last clutch of his control, the last flayed strands of rope slipping from his fingertips. As his conscience would allow it, that begins to slip as well with his depleting energy, as it escapes well-beyond an arm’s reach. His benevolence only allows him to be placid until then, and when the towel’s gentle caress leaves him with the bitter note of the home-brewed beer, his ossification makes a hasty return as the hands of the clock in his subconscious ticks. The back of his eyeballs emit a dull ache, turning soon into a bed of dust-swirling bed of coals. With the world constantly changing around him and they still hadn’t - set rock-solid upon their own dogmas and philosophy set in stone with no altercation like they once had been a pliant and incomplete minds, once laconic and the source of straightforward ramification; of their tempestuous relationship would drag on like stretched taffy. 

Instead of acting how he had intended, the beer works as a stimulant and a steeping agent of his fermented anger, accumulated and condensed within all those nineteen years. The overly sweet berries from before lingers in his tastebud like some sort of backlash - the action solely done to piss off his brother, than him having a sudden craving over the fresh and plump fruit. “Why, does the word ‘dumbass’ bring you much turpitude and leave a fucking dent on your untainted reputation? I could entertain you one day while you prink over for hours, fixing every inch of your fucking body as you peacock over as an attention hoarder.” It wasn’t difficult - as it had been starkly obvious - that the kitchen was Hannibal’s favorite part of the house and his safe retreat. Being a cogitator and all, now with his ‘special habit’ adding another spectrum to the complex dimensionality, perhaps his twin had sought to flick his scepter once again in his throne. He wasn’t going to be some sort of devout warrior who carried out all the duties and orders and going through an unnecessary metamorphosis he didn’t ask for or had it coming. His hazel orbs gleam with a bit of animosity as his gaze hone onto the cake, looking more like a premade mold of something that every gourmand and food entrepreneur would base their designs off of. Circling around the table like he would in the shadows, scrutinizing every minute move his older twin makes as he swallows every single last drop of the alcohol, until the bottle becomes bone-dry with the generated heat from his palm. 

Circling his shoulders and letting his gaze drip with venom-coated arrow tips - broken arrows which wouldn’t properly generate enough power to penetrate the victim’s heart, he’s ready to yell out a ‘NO’ like a cawing raven. Only to be greeted with a roaring growl that rocks his abdomen, he grumbles in his usual desultory fashion before deciding to perch up on the bar stool. Even before he makes a half-loop to reach the center counter, Hannibal requests him to retrieve two brioche rolls and he does it so, not without letting out a begrudging series of incoherent noises, which constitute pejorative belittlement of himself. “ _ Mi-a comanda în jurul ca un copil nenorocit _ .” Grabbing them with his splayed open fingers, as if he would squeeze woman’s breasts or more accurately, tearing them out with scorching pincer of the ripper, in fact, he grabs three and takes a huge bite out of one, akin to a black leopard tearing the most tenderest part of the flesh off with his sharp canines. Nothing majestic nor refined about his impulsive act. Plumbing the loaves down with a decisive thud, he perched on the seat once again, more like a penguin chick waiting for a prospective meal. As soon as the basket reaches within his arm’s length, he snatches it with a talon-like grip with a hint of a puckish grin breaking the impassive facade. “Would this particular brand of show-and-tell involve more conversing? I hope it’s not as melodramatic as you preening yourself by playing your fucking harpsichord.” With a continual cacophony of his clamping, crunching and slurping noise resonant through the kitchen, he barely raises a half-curious and half-annoyed glance upward. “And do make more batch of this, I don’t tolerate American beer and this is surpassing beyond that.”


	17. Chapter 17

Shaking his head in amazement at just how incredibly rude, and incorrigible his brother has become in his years. “I assure you this is not going to be a personal concerto.” Ignoring any other comments his brother has, he runs his thumb across his bottom lip, deep in thought.  Standing up, he cleared the dishes away and tidy up the kitchen. With a sweep of his gaze he checked to make sure everything was in order, then beckoned Nigel forward. “Come, follow me my dear.” With a little tilt of his head he motioned in the direction of the pantry behind them. He had a mischievous glint in his eye and a little smirk on his face. Not a living soul in the world has ever seen what he was about to show his brother, and it made his nerve endings dance with excitement. Walking into pantry he, turned on the lights, moved to a trapdoor that lead down into his basement. Leading the way he didn’t wait for Nigel to follow him, he either would or he wouldn’t. He turned the lights on as he went, feeling physical shift, from his normal persona to, what was hidden under his well tailored person veil. He could hear behind him the clatter of his brother’s footsteps behind him on the stairs. Once he no longer heard movement he turned to look at Nigel’s reaction, with a carefully blank face.

“As you can see this is not, a normal wine cellar, as one might expect.” The dark room was mostly wide open, with a raised platform in the middle. Strips of plastic hung down in a curtain around the square of the platform. The thick walls stone, and high ceiling made for a soundproof area. The middle of the room was reminiscent of what a commercial butcher might have. Walking over to Nigel he stood, close and next to him observing the room from his view. There were hooks for hanging sides of meat, all over the room on chains. There were shelves along the walls, and other tools a butcher might need. There was also heavy duty dark aprons hanging from one hook. Slowly turning his head he met Nigel’s own dark look, and raised his eyebrows at him, but said nothing. Instead he walked forward, moving aside strips of plastic, and walking light footedly across the platform to the other side. On the left was a cabinet of sorts, and next to that an old fashioned record player. Without even looking behind him he could tell that Nigel was hovering close by, calling over his shoulder. Holding up one finger, so that Nigel could see, still facing away from his twin. “Rule number one, we never speak of this.” He chuckled inwardly at his own little joke. Then set the needle on the record, and an upbeat classical song started to play, that sounded like something one would hear when learning to dance.

“Secondly. You will now be speaking to me with more respect.” There was a moment when they stood nearly parallel to each other face to face. Nigel glaring in his usual manner, never one to like being told what to do. Him staring back at his twin in a serious manner. The look in his eyes said that he meant business. He held up two fingers, before saying. “Rule number two, defend yourself.” Quick as a snake, he strafed to the right, nearly brushing up against Nigel’s chest in passing, but he did land a light smack to his brother’s cheek just before he danced away, light on his feet, and circled back around. “Today is the first day of your lessons.” He called out, moving between implements, and the plastic hanging curtain. He realized now that his brother unlike him, needed constant stimulation, and needed to be doing something almost all the time. If that was what he required, then he would gladly give him a work out that would have him pass out like a baby before dinner. He was content to draw, cook, or do the finer things in life, and the arts, to pass the time. His twin was certainly not so artistic as he himself, and was more inclined to play sports, remembering how he always used to carry a ball. While he slithered between the hanging hooks, to come up on Nigel’s right side, he laid the flat of his palm on the back of his twin’s shoulder, and gave him a shove. He kept thinking back to the first day they reunited 21 years ago, in Paris, playing football with a group of younger children. He dodged a right hook from his twin, and with a Cheshire like grin he told him. “Tomorrow, you will hit me back, you will see, but not today.” He hoped that this would help take some of the aggression out of Nigel. Channeling his energy into something useful.        

___

The weight upon his shoulders aggravated with burden and all the quotidian activities they pursued together as adolescents flood his mind as he voraciously satiates his appetite. With the fortified and strengthened iron rods blocking the entrance to his most vulnerable, unperturbed psyche resting deep inside his heart, with the extended amount of time already passed from the most contented memories, all the pleasantries and foremost exuberant recollections become rusty and un-lubricated with disuse. Although he had come clean for more than a decade now, there had been days when no amount of overwhelming surges in dopamine would work to penetrate his fried receptors as his brain already had adapted to the onslaught of exquisite yet ephemeral gratification. The result being a lessening of dopamine’s impact on the reward circuit, which had reduced his ability to enjoy not only the drugs but also other events in life that previously brought pleasure. As stubborn and consistent as the somaticizing throb of pins and needles fully blossoming just behind his eye sockets, incinerating as his own discouraging remark towards his brother just moments ago, the onset of migraine triggers along with such content recollection of the small studio in Paris. Although he had transformed into a completely different individual since then, he still yearned for that tight-knit connection, as his adamantine trait would allow. Without any reason to hide his raw, almost fatal surge of emotions, akin to the stardust full of stale ash and gunpowder, with its characteristic bitterness and smokiness cutting through the air like a sharpened blade, he huffs an exhale. Albeit curious about what Hannibal has up in his sleeve, every inch of his muscle stretch tight as a cord, instinctively knowing no matter the severity, it would be something astonishing. 

Moving more like a stealthily moving assassin zooming in for a kill, he follows suit with a faint clearing of his throat. His own expressive hazel scintillating as if containing celestial bodies within green specks of his pupils. His usual easy and long stride, looking more like a swaggering saunter than anything else, turns more lucidly sensible; slipping into his own clandestine room behind the fake latch in his office in Bucharest. No one, but Darko would have his highly secured access and even then, his long-time partner didn’t fully realize what he had been capable of doing. Uttering and almost purring an appreciative hum, he scrutinizes each element carefully, as the pieces of unsolved puzzles come together. The starkly forbidding countenance of the kitchen along with all the equipment tie together in a cohesive link. “No fucking kidding about endeavoring your knowledge about anatomy to culinary arts, you’re your own ethical butcher.” Running his fingertips along the heavy-duty aprons, he could almost taste rusty tang of iron-rich blood as drops become streams along the rough fabric and visualize the dense splatter of continuous arterial spray soaking his hand with familiar warmth. Hiding his true emotion beneath phlegmatic mask, slash of his thinned lips imperceptibly curl before widening cheek to cheek, almost looping around his ears as Hannibal speaks of zipping their mouths shut about all of this. If he was going to be a participant in viscera butchery and all of its bloodshed (and partaking in savoring each of the sounders), it would only come natural for him to do so. 

Yet again, he is reminded of the rudimentary, utilitarian, bleary with suffocating darkness miasma of his flat. His own sulking glower the only hint of luminescence as his open shirt reveals flat planes of his unblemished, sun-kissed skin. Most would have already jumped at the provocation and let their heartbeat jump in a hitch, but he wasn’t most people. Unblinking and with a subtle tilt upward as he pivots away for a while, switching off the light to adjust to the darkness, it seems natural for them to be surrounded upon the comfort (and familiarity) of it. Only a minute flutter of his lash gives off his annoyance and virulence. Even before his twin finishes speaking, his mind, full of whirling steam, is already ready to bump heads with the other; he doesn’t need a fucking lesson in defending himself nor his goddamn mood sanguine enough to go along with what Hannibal is getting at. Rolling his shoulders underneath the garment containing his rising heat to be expelled, he slips off his button-down and augments his stance. “I still recall I let you lose in that fucked-up wager of ours. You cheated me with an offer I simply couldn’t refuse back then.” Pressing the tip of his tongue against the back of his lower teeth, he huffs to let out some steam from the hit before. Every nerve ending generates enough sparks to fuel his existence - within this atmosphere - to summon every bit of his cognition. All hardened through both beat-downs and triumphs, rapid growth of his physicality came appurtenances of brawling and brutality filled with bruises and blood splatters. Exhaling in a sulking anger, he axles on his right leg to attempt a forceful hook, only for his twin to parry in a pendulous motion. “You won’t fucking witness tomorrow with my ticking benevolence.” Grabbing one end of the hook and running his finger along the sinister curve, he brings the tip of his thumb onto the sharpened edge, drawing a spreading drop of blood to act as an incitement.   


	18. Chapter 18

Watching from the shadows, he circles and teases Nigel with light taps on the shoulder or arm, and playful shoves. He uses his brother’s anger, and wild temper against him. Fully expecting him to make mistakes, because his twin lets his rage blind him. While it is dark and hard to see, he can see the faint outline of the other in the shadow from the light that streams in from some source. Calling out he replies to Nigel bringing up the past. “Oh of course I cheated. I could not best you with brawn back then, so I used my wits. Besides you can’t complain about that now. We both know just how much fun we had.” There is a coppery tang of blood in the air, he can smell it, and he wonders if it’s Nigel’s shoulder wound was acting up. Getting in close, he whispers in the dark. “Didn’t we?” His voice is like a sultry purr, an invisible caress on your skin, the kind that induces goosebumps, and chills. He is feeling oddly nostalgic,  feeling like a kid again, messing around with his brother. He is almost, but not quite taken aback by sudden movement, he had let his guard down a little, since he was not entirely serious about causing further harm to Nigel. He just wanted to toy with him, and teach him a little lesson in manners

Just barely dodging the advancement of his twin, he backs up pulling one of the aprons from a hook, and uses it to distract. Whipping the apron into Nigel’s face, he maneuvers his twin so that he can get behind him. “Was it really that bad being with me those two years, my dear?” Getting his brother into a rear naked choke hold, he hangs on applying pressure. The wind is knocked out of him, when Nigel elbows him in the abdomen. Falling backwards, still holding onto his twin, both going down to the cold hard basement floor. The two of them end up rolling until the hit something solid. His first instinct is to protect his middle, from any blow’s sent his way. All he can think about is, hoping that his face doesn’t get messed up, because it would look terrible at the office on Monday. Between the two of them, the apron got tangled up in limbs in their scuffle. There is a space of a few heart beats where nothing happens, and time stands still. He takes that opportunity to bite Nigel on the arm, so that he let’s go. With a twinkle of mirth, he impulsively gives his twin a tender kiss on the lips, before wrestling him from off top. Laying back panting on the cement floor. “Enough, Enough! I give.” He laughs, and moves to get up, offering his twin a hand. He dusts off his clothes, finding a rip in his shirt. Frowning, he can’t help think that maybe he should have changed his clothing first, before provoking Nigel into a fight.

Straightening out his outfit, ignoring the slight awkwardness between them, he re-rolls his sleeves back up. Walking over to the record player, he lifts the needle, so that the music stops. “We can continue this tomorrow. I should get dinner started.” He clears his throat, and glances at Nigel sidelong. A deep part of him would like nothing more than to continue romping around like a teenager again with his twin. The other half was Dr. Hannibal Lecter, psychiatrist, and much too old to be acting like a child. He gave Nigel an almost bitter-sweet smile, before turning to go back up stairs. He needed to shower and change his clothes. He can’t help, but to think that he ruined the mood with that little kiss. It had been a long time since they had been intimate, 19 years to be exact, and he only had himself to blame. If Nigel wanted nothing to do with him now, he wouldn’t be surprised, but he still held out hope. He didn’t even need to turn the lights out, as he climbed up the stairs back into the pantry. He was lost in thought thinking about what he might have lost. Having already lost Mischa, his bright shining star, it was a very hard pill to swallow, knowing that he might have also lost Nigel, just in a different way. There was no sense fretting about it, he was going to let things play out on their own, just to see what would happen. 

___

As the blazing tenseness sweeps through each vertebrae, he realizes the effervescent anger doesn’t backfire against him. Rather, it acts as an abating agent to let him instantly travel back in time, to their Paris flat where they could be bubbly and exuberant teenagers again. With less hardened soul as Hannibal had been the lightening to his own deep-rooted tree, the older twin’s words becoming the inextinguishable fire that burned the best parts of him. Eventually, the absence of the proper education caught up with him in a snap. Fingers clutched tight enough to leave crescent marks over his palm, he could feel the cords and veins taut and protrude against his inner arm. The tails and ends of his shirt plastering onto his pectorals as more drops of sweat grace his high-sheen expanse of copper-toned skin. Rolling his tongue to spread the piquant taste of iron-rich blood, he scrambles and gives off a provocative glance over his shoulders. “An incitement enough to subdue my competitiveness and sour note of loss that followed. Although I have to admit, more good for what ails you than being unfortunate yet again to live like a fucking street rat.” With Hannibal’s arousing passion oozing off each syllable, the oppressive heat immediately freezes over, dropping along with the broiling remnants of bottled-up anger. His twin always had the surefire answer to checking with his anger, no matter how explosive and destructive it got, even when in his tongue-tied state, the larruping puckish gleam of the maroon would be the snuggery of the room. Perhaps even more so than he cares to admit. 

With a slow blink as the titillation shoots up in the form of unnoticeable quiver of his muscles, his bout of being an angsty, uncontrollable ball of grumpiness abruptly ends here with a spreading smirk, soon manifested into more of a simper. Waving his arm in front in failed attempt to snatch the apron as his features crease taut, he slips an undignified grunt when he’s held against the choke-hold - finding it to be unusually subjugating as well as inciting. His husky sound more intensified with the deflating air and kindled arousal, he pretends to mutter out an answer and instead, sends both of them tumbling down the floor like giant boulder gradually gaining momentum. “You already know the fucking answer to that one.” Grunting and rasping, the heel of his feet leverages him to turn him into a tightly drawn bow, unyielding as his muscles tremor with exertion as he tries to free himself from tenacious grip. After a few more jabs and thrusting of his elbows after, he finally reverses their position, only to be pierced by Hannibal’s vampire-like canines that seems to match his hook line and sinker aesthetics. “Ah! You little shit!” Immediately letting go of his brother and hissing with a set jaw and gritted teeth, he coughs and rolls to his left side, finding a few perforated spots along his shirt and intensifying scent of blood, both from his thumb and underneath the bandage as it begins to throb. Perhaps his unchecked steaming really was ricocheting off in aversion. 

The kiss lingers more onto the delicate slash of his lips than the glowing piquancy of the sanguine, blending with the saltiness along the tinged flesh. Being aware of the stimulant and the epinephrine constituted along with tickling heat brewing further to turn the atmosphere into something other than a grim reminder of expected death, an inescapable dungeon where their sounders would meet their demise along with the ferocious somber. Raking his damp locks as they whip and prick against his flushed cheeks, lips stretch along with a puff of exhale; meeting Hannibal’s poignancy, both heartbreaking and softhearted. He doesn’t have to switch off his pensive reverie to perceive his brother’s steps becoming a mere hint of ghostly recollections as they distance further away from him. Drenched in both comfortable air of silence and eclipse, he swivels around the dangling hooks and quietly loiters along the space before clambering the stairs and shutting the door. Now no visible stubborn strands needing to be plucked upon as the last oozing heat hang onto his perspiration-coated skin, more torpor claims him as he makes back to the twilight blazing kitchen. As if the orange glow had been plucked right out of his essence - more to be egged on by his brother and metamorphose into something entirely else. Just like that bubbling enthusiasm had transpired into positive endeavor. The individual stepping forth the kitchen is a different one from when he had surrounded with Hannibal’s most innermost sanctorium - the place of both immoral self-indulgence and carousal upon viscera and blood. Craving a cigarette, but having inclined with something else, he catches his brother just in the nick of divergence. “I am going to suggest a shower. That fucking bath from the night before doesn’t count.”    


	19. Chapter 19

In his head he was already planning dinner, he wanted to make something that he knew Nigel would love. One of the best things he had ever made while they shared a flat in Paris was Beef Bourguignon. In the experimental phase still it had turned out excellent, and his brother raved about it for days. Now that he was significantly better at cooking, he wanted to recreate the dish in a proper dutch oven. In another train of thought he was preparing a list and making plans for the near future to help aid in Nigel’s cover story, and his fake background as a professional investigator. He wanted to make sure that their were no loopholes in the story he had created. He was going to make sure to produce the proper paperwork, and get Nigel a fake license. It would open doors for Nigel, and it would always be nice to have someone protecting his interests, who better than to have it be his own twin. He also wanted to get something nice for his brother, a surprise if you will. If he insisted on carrying a gun around, he would prefer he make it look legitimate. He would also give his twin the gun, he hide back to him as a peace offering.   

Stopping he turns back at the sound of Nigel calling him. When Nigel requests a shower, he assumes that his brother was being courteous and informing him before hand. “Oh, yes course. I should expect you would like a proper shower. If you didn’t know you have a bathroom just off the guestroom of your own, that you may take advantage of at your convenience.” Beckoning to his brother he leads him upstairs to show him to the guest bathroom, and to retrieve a towel and washcloth for him. “If you should ever need more towels they can be found just in here.” He showed Nigel the linen closet, he suppose that the guestroom and adjoining bath were now Nigel’s if he did indeed plan to stay. Which also meant that, he would need to get a temporary change of address, and possibly a green card, depending on how long he would be here.There was much to do and little time, most of his day tomorrow would be spent getting forms filled out and procuring the necessary items to make Nigel look like a honest to goodness private investigator.  Pivoting on his heel he turned to go, and leave his twin to his shower, when something dawns on him.

Leaning on the door frame of the bathroom, and glancing down at his own disheveled appearance. His shirt is scuffed, and there is a rip in the fabric. He himself had planned to get a shower also, and he can’t help thinking about the idea of getting a shower with Nigel, like they used to when they were young and carefree. Choosing his words carefully and making sure to keep his tone light and playful he inquires after his twin. “Did you intend for me to get a shower with you, my dear brother? For old times sake of course.” He couldn’t help the minor sinister look he had on his face. Nigel would either think he was teasing, or take the bait. Either way, it didn’t hurt to ask. No harm no foul, and anything that might aloud them to grow closer together like they once were, was a plus in his book. “I too need to get a shower, after our little roll in the basement. I can’t rightfully cook dinner in this state.” He would leave the choice up to his brother. Regardless of the reply, he still would need to get a shower of his own. If his twin said yes then maybe there was hope for their rekindled friendship and possible love affair once more. 

___

All the love and limerence, with all the infectious cells multiplying and monopolization visualized into the menagerie of swelled anger, he ruminates the words of his brother before their departure. Who would ever thought those labyrinthine walls would construct in a heartbeat, as all the sprouts had its aggrandizing qualities. It just needed a shower of  _ hatred  _ and  _ resignation _ . Each drop from the downpour becoming a gritty caress, grain of sand hindering his growth. Without the clearing of his projected pathway, the downfall came as smooth as the adamantine walls he had bottled himself in. Like a ticking time bomb, his flaring and volatile temper acted up like pins and needles of hedgehog.  _ All sharp edges, acerbic and offensive _ . All the quotidian things he used to relish with greatest pleasure had became the stings from the hornets. Perhaps he had been an embodiment of the drone - his life as a one-shot, one-kill endeavor. Drowning himself in the bitterness of the percolated coffee grounds until the he seeped virulent irascibility all over his orifice. His twenties were wasted as if it didn’t exist in his muddled haze of a memory. Drug-fueled, self-destructive, with countless cigarette butts and bone-dry, heavily dusted whiskey bottles bunched together like nameless gravestones over a mass grave.  _ His existence had hobbled out in a blaze of colors, full of vertiginous halos. _

Both love and longing, along with an equilibrium of hatred and grudge coursing through his bloodstream, the modulating sensation had a propensity to take over every strand of his thought processes. Like a mental illness, he had learned to cope with the chronic nature, as no amount of drug or his built-up tolerance would counter the chemical change in his brain. Those convoluted pathways had been hardened, strengthened and cracked with years, only to become obdurate with each passing day. Until he became a fibber degenerated to become a prevaricator. It was like tugging on the fish hook; leave it perforated through his skin, the entry wound would go septic and infected. He would have yanked it off like he would the bandage, exactly like the one on his right shoulder currently. It would take a good chunk of his flesh out and leave him to slowly bleed out as he tugged on each with agonizing shriek through gritted teeth. He wasn’t ready to fully admit, when Hannibal had mentioned him being a private investigator, the deeply buried studious nature had been slowly exposing. The most dominant reason for making his undetermined leave of absence had been to take over the New York club under his wings, but in the recess of his heart, _protecting both of their interests by infiltrating into law enforcement_ had gradually taken over his mind. He would keep this to Hannibal’s surprise, as there would be lots of paperwork and travel required for him to do so. If he can make that leap of faith. He’d cross his heart, hope to die and stick a fucking needle in his eye if he doesn’t make that manifestation come true. 

Intently listening, but at the same time, Hannibal’s usual baritone voice becomes something of a mellifluous white noise as it travels forth one ear and comes back out without making its permanence.  _ One door down the opposite side, I won’t be needing that fucking linen closet ever.  _ Making mental notes himself like he would scrawl down in his usual manner, he turns on his heels as he discards the last item of clothing donning his lower half. The red tinge permeating through pores of his skin the last thing on his mind, he steps into the shower booth and decides to leave the screen open. A silent invitation without being so ambiguous. He would rather surround himself with the morbid strangeness of the Paris underground, where they had taken an interest in exploring the catacombs. The eldritch atmosphere and the odor of dilapidated house, all the ghoulish skeletons aiding in their quest of shudders. An untranslatable feeling washes over as he catches the subtle change in Hannibal’s tone. From a bit of clinical undertone rubbing to a hint of playful tease, which they had relished over the two short years of their reunion. “I long for the days when you were able to detect even the subtlest change of my voice and actions. What do you fucking think?” Padding over the cold slick tiles, he watches a faint swirl of pink water caress his skin before taking an imperceptible peep over the shoulder. 


	20. Chapter 20

Still leaning against the door frame him, pushes himself away, with a twinkle of mischief around his eyes. He knew that he was in now, and that their was still a glimmer of hope. Without a reply and turning to the side precisely he, walked down the hallway to the linen closet and got a towel and washcloth for himself. Standing for a moment clutching the cotton fabric between his hands feeling it between his fingers, stuck in a sort of limbo. He was torn between the thing he wanted most, and continuing to dangle a carrot on a stick for  his brother to chase, to keep offering something that was too good to give up. In the end, his curiosity and own desire to see where things lead won out. He went briskly back down the hall, and went into the guest bath, which was now filling up with steam. Closing the door silently behind him, he unbutton his destroyed dress shirt, and folded it neatly, and placed it on the sinks long counter. He did the same with his slacks, and he put his boxer briefs in the hamper. He liked the mysterious aura of the steam fogging the whole bathroom up an shrouding everything in a fog, that gave this moment an otherworldly effect. He picked his brother’s rumpled clothing off the floor and tossed them in the hamper also, with a curt look on his face. His twin always was, and most likely will be like a child that needed picked up after, but there was something comforting in the knowledge that Nigel was still the same teenager he knew deep down from nineteen years ago.

Just before he slipped into the glass shower stall he turned the vent on to kick in and vacuum the dense steam out of the bathroom. It would take a few moments, and it would still allow him to keep the illusion of enchantment. He walked into the stall and pulled the door shut behind him, looming out of the swirl of fog, like a figure in some Greek epic. Just as he knew he would be, Nigel was already soaking wet, and standing under the fountain of water. He gave his twin, first an analytical once over, observing scars, marks, differences in appearance. The slight darker tan that his brother had from being outside all of the time. The tattoo on his neck, stood out darker under the moisture of the water, showing more details. While generally he did not have any issues with tattoos himself, as long as they were tastefully, he couldn’t help the disdain and resentment he felt towards the ink that marred his brother’s neck. It just made one more difference between them, and made it easier to tell them apart. Secondly, he went to Nigel, standing close enough, but not touching, he washed his hands with soap under the hot water, and peeled away the bandage that was still on his twin’s shoulder. “You may get it wet, and I would advise to lightly wash around the area, just don’t soak the wound. That means no swimming or long showers for now.”

His clinical tone slowly drained away at the look Nigel was giving him. It was a habit that he fell into without even thinking about. All he was doing was looking out for the well being of his brother. Solemnly he added, “I’ll change the bandage for you after you get out of the shower.” And that was all he said on the matter. Not saying another word, he stepped under the stream of hot water, face turned up to the ceiling with his eyes closed. He let the spray soak into his skin and hair, plastered to his face. He was going to do his best to remain neutral, and try not to provoke a response from Nigel, this was a very delicate moment that could potentially go very wrong if he wasn’t careful. He wanted to advance their close relationship, without seeming to needy or eager. In truth, there had been no other soul that he had shared the same kind of closeness he had nineteen years ago with Nigel. No one else compares, and he didn’t allow anyone else to get close enough to him. Everyone was safely held at arm’s length mainly to protect himself. If no one got close to him, then there was no risk for them to see past the veil, and his true self. With Nigel, his twin already knew who, and what he was. While his twin might not have known about the pigs he slaughtered, or the scum he hunted down, or those he ate, he knew other things about him. Knew about his past, the brutal murder of their family, and the shared horrors of the orphanage. He could still feel the tingle of Nigel’s skin under his fingertips, and realized just how much he wanted to touch him. He longed for touch, and from someone that he loved in his own way, and with someone who could take away his loneliness. 

___

Encompassed by the veil of cocooning water and thick luscious ashen blonde shades, all the pungent bitterness and rueful stings of the hornet’s prickle dissipates as the clockwork unwinds itself in the back of his skull. Old habits died hard and he still had clutched those frame of mind like he would an invisible strands of carefully wrapped up gift, too precious to let it go as the sensation redux followed. The visualization of the illuminating moonlight, streaming down without any hindrance through their vast windows, slanting and flickering confetti-like lights turn like fireflies, sparkling effulgence only matched by celestial bodies scattered overhead like dusted crystal powder. Just like when they had been in the orphanage, but without all the rueful dilapidation of their minds. Instead of relinquishing the cherished time as if he had been trying to make up all the lost time - of his destructive anger, akin to the sun’s surface where there would be no mercy as to careless individuals crossed the boundary. All unrefined and raw, bundled gyre of blazing embers. He would spend his time staring up at the painted ceiling, full of incandescent glitter. Through rapid exchange of breathes and assimilation of many new experiences he didn’t get to take advantage before, he had been fully sated in both body and mind, overfeeding himself with general erudition and clear and certain mental apprehension. The involvement and entanglement of their growing liaison tight-knit than ever.  _ Who would have thought they would fail to obviate the looming inevitability of Hannibal leaving to the States? _ As concurring thoughts manifests themselves within the obscurity of whirling overcast, the permeated steam itself acts safeguard from revealing himself in whole. 

Like the madness and grudge, as his brother once had admitted in the darkness as uncontrollable surge of emotion, different in hues and vibes, washed over him. At the end of all things, the contrasting flamboyance and intensity all had mellowed out to calmness as the words of forgiveness became a tranquil melody upon the quiet Parisian night. Things had taken a different route - back then, he had been oblivious to the fate of those who wronged their family. Without knowing a proper justice had been served and there was enough pain to go around, proportionate to their shared afflictions, there would be no more scream that they will share together. He breathed hatred through the lungs, expelled deplorable tragedy with all his might that just would be obdurate. Like a parasite eating him inside out without him realizing it, his life had been shaped with one part of unbearable guilt and two parts of indistinguishable fury. Whether his unrestrained violent behaviors had been substituted upon his other victims in his appurtenances, all the percolated anger had no means of diluting it. Jumping the gun as however he saw fit. Feeling Hannibal’s gaze by his side - as subtle as the high and low beams of his bike, sweeping across the deserted road in pitch-black darkness, he pivots slightly, as if he might turn around and pressing his back to the older twin’s front - something crosses his face then, an unreadable expression which could be closely defined as a cross between yearning and annoyance. Subtly raising his downward gaze, he finds his own voice reverberating, the ambiance like a dim catacombs. Full of dug-up history and sense of loss, dissatisfaction and earnest desire. 

“Do you really think that fucking bandage is what I have as a primary agenda in my mind? As much as I don’t want you prodding my head, I thought you were a better psychiatrist than that with this particular look across my goddamn face.” Silence is underrated and they were already accustomed to the concept - always fond of night with the same reason. Although the haunting nightmares were full of gestural crimson and its varying degrees of intensity, the struck chords becoming a continuous macabre, a symphony of recurrent requiem. His icy gaze, not too prickling his warm hazel glow had melted the tiny crystals on the tips of his lashes, the vague fuzziness becomes crystal clear as Hannibal’s similar form, all six feet of toned likeness reflects upon just opposite the cascading veil. Surrounded by the white light, his gaze slowly melts into a dripping mellowness as his arm circled around Hannibal’s tight waist. _ I missed this, so fucking much.  _ More than the flesh to flesh, an appeasing settlement between the warmth between their bodies, aggrandized by the caress of both his mind and soul. Holding him with a firm squeeze of arm enough to have his bones creaked, Nigel’s hand slides up into his twin’s hair, a gentle tug as fingers spread upon the lengthened thick hair at the back of his neck. His chin dips down against the strong shoulders, blades to blades, the brush of their throbbing skin confirming a bit of rise in their palpitating beat, meeting in midway between entanglement of ribs. His expression relaxes, etching the beginning of a smile as their cheekbones kiss in mid-motion. “Is this what you wanted? If I could ever pinpoint what you’re thinking - letting the strands of thoughts become hooks and branches grabbing at your psyche,” he pauses for a bit, fingertips trailing up the sharp protrusion of Hannibal’s hipbone and his mellowed down gaze trailing back behind close. A hide-and-seek between his creeping chill and settling heat, coexisting in own spine. “I should have never let you go, not even a fucking step out of that Paris studio.”   


	21. Chapter 21

Just the feel of Nigel pressed up against his front, is a shock to the system. He isn’t prepared for it, he certainly doesn’t go around touching people. And having waited so long to have a reunion between siblings was a buildup of tension, and relief all rolled into one. For a moment he froze in place, like a statue, posed with his own hand wiping water down his face. He listens to his brother’s words without saying anything. His eyes remain still and closed, he is afraid that if he says anything at all, that everything could slip away between his fingers, like an inky black dream, swirling away into the aether. Turning his head to the side he slowly opens his eyes lifting his gaze cautiously, almost like a shy little kid might. The fingertips brushing his hipbones, and raking through his hair is enough to snap him out of his sweet waking dream. “I try my best not to psychoanalyze you my dear, I know that it isn’t something you would like, coming from me.” He finally worked up enough strength to reply, unsure of how things might go. No matter how confident, and self sure, and positive about things he might be in his day to day life, everything gets thrown out the window when it comes to Nigel. He is an unpredictable whirlwind of emotions, and the harsh fiery wind of change.

_ Is this what he wanted?  What did he want? _ He kept repeating the question to himself over and over. He never wanted for a thing, with his good job, inheritance, and the generous thanks of certain patients, he was very well off. If he wanted something all he needed to do was take it. The world was at a hand’s reach away. That is everything had been but Nigel. His twin was the one thing he was unable to attain, the one thing that he could never reach. He had tried looking him up through agencies, but once Nigel has vacated the small flat in Paris, he was just gone, disappeared like smoke in the wind. He had been left helpless to do more, stuck in college unable to take a leave of absence to go trekking across eastern Europe to go look for his lost twin. One thing lead to another, and soon he was too busy to do for deep searches. For years and years, he would read the news in a bunch of major cities in europe, to just to see if there was any sign at all that could lead him to the fate of his brother. Once the age of the internet was abound, he was able to do news searches online, but nothing ever turned up. After ten plus years of not hearing a word, he assumed either his twin didn’t want to be found or worse, he was dead. More caresses and warm skin against skin, shakes him out of his haunting reverie. Nigel’s words, have him staring at his twin like he suddenly grew two heads, his whole head jerks back briefly in shock at the other’s admission.

“Does the moon tire of rising into the sky each night, yes, but it always comes back eventually.” The waxing and waning of the moon was the perfect metaphor for what happened between them, no matter how tired, or how far apart they grow, they always come back together. Much like when the moon and the sun meet at the same time in the sky and kiss each other in passing. Placing both hands on either side of Nigel’s face he searches his twin down to the soul, staring into his hazel orbs, unblinking. The thumb of his right hand lovingly strokes the high ridge of his brother’s cheekbone. He always knew that he was a narcissist, but staring into the tanned and damp face of his twin confirms what he always knew. “I will always choose you above all else, from now on. You wouldn’t have been able to keep me from leaving back then, but now you have my undivided attention. This is what I want.” At that he leaned forward, and placed a gentle wet kiss upon Nigel’s lips. It was tender, and for the first time in as long as he can remember, his heart skips a beat, and it starts to race in his chest. He hasn’t felt this way about anything in a very long time. Not since the days of sitting on a rooftop on their flat in Paris, drinking and sharing intimate moments together in the twilight. He cannot remember the last time his pulse raised above 85, not even when he was stalking down a particularly dangerous prey.      

___

His whole life’s topographical map had been him being swept upon millions of faces, some recurrent, some merely passerby, most often barely enough to etch through his adamantine walls, but the number had been scarce. Just like a time-exposure photography involving using a long-duration shutter speed to sharply capture the stationary elements of images while blurring, smearing, or obscuring the moving elements, all the specks and confetti-like glimmering luminescence are translated into unending sparks of generated electricity. How Hannibal and his convoluted nature of bondage had nestled inside his subconsciousness as their presences vanished, deeply etched further, or merely became a ghostly sense of invisible line. Just like the unhatched chicks sensing each other’s heart vibrations in their aviary, their coexistence traced all the way back inside the womb. The mirror image, their codependency and competitiveness, becomes something of an unnecessary afterthought. He admits, silently, there had been a time when the word love didn’t strike him as it did before, the  _ volatility  _ and its  _ double-crossness _ manifesting into the somatic changes in his body - turning his blood cold and his skin crawl with bitter resentfulness and ruefulness akin to the obscurity before a complete darkness surrounds the flat. He briefly whirls back to the shower booth in his Bucharest flat - the very city which he had resided in contradicted and intensified the irony. None of the  _ happiness  _ or  _ joyfulness  _ which the city’s name had stemmed from never had perforated through his system, full of capricious violence and the cracks in his heart stopped aching long time ago. Instead, the fissures around the thinned lining would rupture, as those would not heal, continuing to seep in the poisons of its past. None of the good recollections and a lovely face to match would turn into pastiches that would vanish in its entirety within castle in the air. 

Like a dictator governing each and every cell of his body, the redundant phrase of someone being ‘out of sight, out of mind,’ failed to serve him right. Although having quit the appurtenances of his procession cold turkey years ago, the ephemeral sensation of floating high in the atmosphere along with the silver lining basking him whole in a bundle of caress had been most tempting throughout all those years. His figment of imagination would always concoct the situation and unwind the clockwork to unfold a particular situation where they had been together the whole life. Now having written a mental note over the shared interests, even those immoral special hobby of theirs would be elevated to being something more than a mere butchering and putting a definite period onto their worthless lives. Watching and hearing the flutter and ebb of the heartbeat reaching zero, as in contrast, their heartbeat would rise to give a gentle nudge upon the ribcage. An  _ allegretto _ , a little lively and moderately fast, not too uncontrollable as the metronome-like steadiness echoes through the bones, giving him a renewed sense of liveliness.  _ What a fucking marvelous day to be alive _ , all the distance he had widened through blinding halos of fury as he had stood as a bystander in his own life. All the emptiness of his tainted soul fulfilling with each ounce of love pouring down to make up for the loss of nineteen years. Each ripped thread slowly sewn up slowly in his six feet square of a quilt, each plane showing the rock-bottom and zenith of his life. The latter, most likely, would be this particular moment. 

Without the marring sensation of the beveled needles, the deadly combination hurtling him across the bridge of life and death when his mind took an unexpected turn at an instant. Setting out into the unknown and taking initiative with calamitous enthusiasm. If there was no means of smoothing what became all jagged edges of impenetrable rock formations with thorns,  As paradoxical and against his stubborn nature, he would have to subdue his raging sense of self and pay a particular attention, instead of paving no regard over anything in his path. “Suitably so along with the sun and the moon metaphor, the spreading fire needs a bit of a quenching before it becomes too rampant, self-destructive. Offering both of a refreshing, cool stream and enigmatic like the unfathomable depth of the unexplored ocean.” Doppelgangers turned vastly different, fire and water could become uncontainable and unpredictable elusiveness. The perceptible closeness echoes through each toss of breath between them. Their souls parading through blazing shades of their combined warmth, an imperceptible twitch of his facial muscles proves as it grows radiant. As gentle curves and slashes of their bodies press further until his right foot takes a step back, leveraging the pivoting heel as he dips as he plasters both hands on Hannibal’s shoulders. “You’ve got mine, also.” As if the flint had stroke a fiery particle upon the bundle of his core, he swoops down like a hawk seizing its prey to have the affectionate kiss to manifest into a frenzied bursting expansion. Dipping his gaze downward as the water itself seems to fondle, fingers sweep Hannibal’s length from underneath, his own slithers along with the decisive movement. “I still remember when I felt the vibration from your body like an aftershock of an earthquake. Silent, skin on skin, bodies singing like a looping echo.”      


	22. Chapter 22

After the kiss is broken, it’s like the spell they were under was also dispelled. Both stood face to face under the large fountain of water looking at each other. There is a switch inside him that is thrown so easy, in his daily life, he tries to make everything elegant and refined. His standards are high and even greater for himself, he walks through life with a certain grace and flare. This allows him to make anything he does look effortless and precise. When he goes into apex predator mode, going from his normal outward persona that he shows the world, to what he keeps hidden under the veil. The one time that one might think that he would be in his predator mode; would be during intimate moments, but that was when he was his most gentle and humane. Anyone that he ever managed to get in the sheets with, had always been treated with much tender love and care. Nigel had been the first, and the one who had received the most of his affections. When he was being intimate with his twin, he treated Nigel like a precious heirloom, or a priceless artifact. When they had their two year love affair nineteen years ago, it was filled with loving caresses and feather light kisses. Now in his daily life he was the dominant predator, the top of the food chain, the one in charge and command of every little facet of his life. When he was with Nigel he was able to let go, and just be himself, he didn’t have to hide. His twin knew and saw his real being, and accepted him for who and what he was.

All the time they spent alone, he had grown very withdrawn and lonely. He didn’t let the few people he entered into an affair with really see who he was, only a facet of his personality and life. It always left him feeling unfulfilled and lacking. After he assumed that Nigel was gone from his life, he accepted the fact that he would most likely never meet anyone else for the rest of his days that he could let down his guard with. Lo and behold though, here he is, Nigel in the flesh. Taking shape like a figment of his memory palace, just as he imagined. It was more than he could have asked for. And truthfully, his twin, had always been his beloved Diamond in the rough. His other half who was thrust into bad situation, after bad situation, but rose above it all to become who he is now. He only needed to polish and refine his brother, and he would shine like the very best gem, and that was one thing that made him keep Nigel close to his heart. No matter how rough around the edges, or ill tempered, and wild his brother was, given time, he would be magnificent. He knew from the two years they spent together, that he had the potential, and he never gave up hope that it was still there lurking under the surface. “How could I ever forget, your phantom wouldn’t let me. When you were gone, so far away it was as if I had lost a limb, but could still feel it.”

Nigel had been his phantom limb, and his ghost followed him everywhere. Just like before, it was as if a switch was thrown and he was right back into the mindset of their relationship from long ago. He touched his twin’s face as if it would break. A hand combing fingers through his brother’s wet locks, feeling the texture, and absorbing the differences. How his twin’s hair was longer. He pet him like a reassuring guardian. He stroked the side of Nigel’s face and hooked his hand under and behind his twin’s right ear, and pulled him closer once again. His other hand is trailing fingertips across Nigel’s broad shoulders, to trace the pad of one finger over the wound there. It’s healing nicely, and his brother would recover with minimal scarring as long as they kept a close eye on it and cleaned the bandages regularly. He has strong desire to press a kiss to the injury and run his tongue along the cut. He refrains from doing so, because that wouldn’t be sanitary, and he didn’t want to risk infection. Instead, he pushes his twin lightly, with a guiding hand against the wall and out of the stream of water. With Nigel against the wall, pinned between his two arms, each hand placed on either side of his brother’s shoulders, he traps him in the circle of his arms, leaning forward to run his nose along the other’s cheek, and continue his exploration and examination with his lips. They were the exact same height and it made it very romantic, and had a sense of closeness, being able to stare directly into each other’s eyes. He was growing incredibly hard from the close contact, and being touched by Nigel after so many years, it instantly brings back memories, and he can’t help pressing his stiff length against Nigel’s thigh. “Is this your primary agenda, my dear?” he asked, pulling away just enough to look his twin in the face. 

___

Through the continuous strands of water washing away the grimes of the past, it doesn’t take too much of an effort to visualize the empty carapace of his flat. His heart still stolen with just an exhale of a breath, the previous kiss which he had initiated is all-consuming. As if the edge of his soul had been brushed with a resuscitating lips of a lifegiver, it is an reenactment of what it seems like the ancient greeting; the two forgotten souls who had finally found each other through the span of ages and learning how to love each other all over again. The architect of desideratum had already created the mental image - the only task he needs to plunge into is to explore their bodies and minds like they have done so many times in the past. As if abandoned and haunted, it became the subject of his own mind’s accumulation of tainted past. Like a curious and ecstatic child, but well knowing what lies past that cold metal door with chipped paint, he hadn’t dared to take a single step towards the door frame when the foundation of the very sanctuary which had been another layer of his mind’s construction. He would never let one it; it’s as if he’s excavating through his own Pompeii. But then, that would become a risky business as the precious jewels of memories would have become already brittle and fragile beyond reparation. If those ever had a chance to be restored, he would still see the imperfections and cracks through archaeologist’s hand. Each brick upon the residence contained pieces of memories which he would continuously percolate upon As if he would safely store all the happy memories through the pores. His oasis in the desert, the enchanted milky way that would instantly bring back those memories for him to relive through the aid of endless bottles of whiskey and cases of coke.

Then, as if he had been placed on a curse, the extraction of those memories would end with the deepening bitterness as unsavory and inedible coffee grounds turn in a form of ashes, the noxious poison manifested upon the suffocating currents of smoke co-inhibiting alongside with him at all times. Even when he had taken a temporary refuge upon the more grim and gloomy looking walls of his office, the mind still held the prisoner to fading colors of their contented memories. Like brittle remnants of strewn skeletons scattered throughout the barren battlefield, the neglected mass grave full of unnamed gravestones and unspoken epitaph, the grim sonorousness echoes through the walls as frantically flapping heart palpitations and erratic breaths resonate through the corners of the walls. The halos of radiant sunlight barely graces the cold cement, hoping to penetrate through the defensive layers of his fortified fortress. As the weight of the balance shifted greatly, that’s when he had poured all of his energy into work, as if that had been only source of incomparable contentedness that would at least give his existence a meaning. He had tried to steer away from the things they used to do, what they ate, but then, every quotidian thing had touched upon the essence of their relationship. As simple viand as a plateful of crackers and cheese was enough to take him to another place, another time, which seemed a lightyear away from where he had been now.

The drowning white noise turns an endless climactic buildup, and works even more so potently than the cloudy mystic whirl of obscurity. The long-forgotten sensation of bombarding blazing halos and radioactive stream of technicolor he would face as an old company when he sought less pleasurable recollection. The time warps and the evanescence manifests upon the stampede of zealous individuals, along with copious amount of gloom afterwards. He goes through the same thing, but with incorrigible intensity as a hint of burning desire flashes upon the unblinking hazel. No amount of fictitious display of affection given by passing individuals would elicit such rawness. Finding his shoulder wound throb with something other than the bitter chill that had accompanied him for so long in the association with his twin’s name, he relishes the genuineness of the ebb and flow; the foamy azure ocean water kissing over the impeccable shores as his body moves conducive to Hannibal’s movements. Immediately recalling the fledgling years when they had explored each other’s body and the cadence of each other’s movement emancipated his own unsurpassed arousal. The slightest purse of his lips hide the fact that his very own length surges in vivacious vigor. The generated heat, what it used to serve as a corroding agent now transforms to a congenial memento of the past, very much so corporeal and real now. “I was just recalling how we used to cover each other in our essence. You were indeed fucking exquisite, as there are things I have kept out from diminishing strands of memories, even when glut of rueful plight struck me,” giving Hannibal an observant gaze, a kind that sweeps and scrawls into his mental note, he adds. “How long has it been when you had someone else’s fingers wrapped around you in this manner? I wouldn’t fucking digress from this primary agenda of mine.”   


	23. Chapter 23

He was never one to lie, and would only do so when absolutely necessary. When Nigel asked him how long it had been since someone touched him in this manner, his brain stalled, and shrieked like gears grinding breaks down to a halt. Thus far, he had been completely honest with his brother. He told him everything that happened, and if Nigel asked he answered him. All his cards were on the table, with his twin. _How long? How long? How long?_ … kept skipping on repeat in his head. He _knew_ , that these precious few moments between the two of them were monumental. Yet still, he couldn’t bring himself to lie to Nigel, just to save his hurt feelings. There was also a tiny part of him that gluttonous evil side of his heart, wanted to wind Nigel up an let him go. He wanted to see what his twin would do with the knowledge that he was keeping. Clearing his throat, he stood up straight, pushing away from the wall. He stayed within reach of his brother, but turned to the side, casting his gaze downward. “I was in an affair with another, when you showed up on my doorstep.” He lifted his gaze, on the end of the last word to watch the reaction play across his brother’s features. Kept his face neutral, and watched his brother process the information, and the line of rage, twitch at the corner of his eyes. **  
**

“I would advise you to get out of the shower soon, you don’t want to let your shoulder soak.” Turning away from Nigel he went about his business, and finished up his shower, washing his hair, and scrubbing down quickly but thoroughly. Just before he stepped out he looked his twin over, and trailed fingers down his brother’s back, then turned to go. He vacated the glass stall, leaving Nigel to his thoughts, and anger. Drying off, he patted himself down with his towel, and wrapped it around his hard waist and secured it. He walked briskly down the hallway to his room, so that he could get dressed. Wearing only charcoal slacks, and a lilac grey dress shirt, he went down stairs to start dinner. That night just like he planned he made Beef Bourguignon for Nigel. He made no dessert, since he already had the mille-feuille made and planned to go to bed early, because he had many things to do before Nigel woke up. After cleaning up in the kitchen, he put the leftovers away in the refrigerator. For a few odd moments he stood in his domain, fidgeting not sure what to say to his twin. “There are leftovers for you, if you would like more, and I am turning in early tonight.” He looked at his watch, and straightened out the sleeve of his dress shirt. He wanted to say more, but he didn’t want to push his brother in one direction or the other too far. “Goodnight, Nigel.” Nodding he trod upstairs, leaving the other to his own devices.

The next morning he got up just before dawn, and started making phone calls to people he knew for different things he might need. He had a guy that could make him a fake private investigator license. He lifted his brother’s wallet from the pair of pants he left on the floor, and took high quality photos of his driver’s license, and motorcycle license. In the den, he uploaded everything to the computer and forwarded everything over. The guy said that he could pick the license up in a few days, but that wouldn’t do, so he paid to have a speed order filled. He wanted the license here for tomorrow morning. After he was off the phone he put everything back in his brother’s wallet and place it back just where he found it. Next he called in an order at a specialty store that worked with leather, and had a custom made leather shoulder holster ordered, he gave the measurements for Nigel’s chest, and had them give the leather a finish the same color as the leather jacket that he alway wore. That he also paid to have the order filled as soon as possible. After he was finished with that phone call he started breakfast and made some Turkish coffee in his vacuum coffee maker, for Nigel when he got up. He laid out a traditional Moroccan breakfast, including bread, honey, cheese, dates, olives, and fried eggs. For himself he made strong black tea with mint, and when Nigel came into the dining room he had everything laid out in a large spread. “Good Morning, Nigel.”

\---

Still encompassed with the heat of things, his mind whirls as the figment of his imagination concocts all sorts of prospective circumstances. The faded colors, strikingly bleak monochromatic metamorphosing into a fully chromatic, vivid colors as what used to be the bottled-up emotion spurts out loose. The surrounding gloomy atmosphere of the long rainstorm had been stifling and brings a screeching halt to all things to uncover both himself and their suppressed relationship, all the raw blissful cycle of personal growth, going through a definite internal development which have shaped a significant portion of his identity - a balancing pendulum of skewed morality along with enough of ethics to not let him become a completely wild beast loosed upon the world. No more drowning himself in the tristesse of loneliness and abandonment. The slow recovery of the familiar sensation licking all over him in the form of a tremble within the bones and pumping of blood - all those hours of staying up late to beat the night and talking about some stupid shit and little things that doesn’t matter, yet _actually_ mattered. Having put down a stone cold impassiveness along with a hint of sangfroid unapproachable air around almost all the people who had came across his path, he still had that smoldered passion and suppressed anger, indignation and compunction and all the likes. 

He knows he had been the subjects of ephemeral infatuations and a lot of girls naturally inclined to have the hots for him, but most often it ended without the strong bond to have a genuine relationship or it would be on the rocks constantly. Apparently not enough to shake the mantle of his existence or to affect him. And it wasn’t like a fully blossomed rose slowly wilting away with its beauty still retained; petals fell and lost its strong fragrance in fear of lingering today, the bending of stem in the form of slouched shoulder. As if he had given up entirely before all of this. Perhaps the desperate string of memories he had clutched with more love than the person standing in front of him had been finally starting to reverse, albeit slowly, shifting the side. With Hannibal’s sudden revelation, the air knocks right off of his abdomen as if there had been a hole inside his upper torso, more as if his ribcage had been spread open in a blood eagle with his deflated lungs and frenetically beating heart exposed outside the elements. Futilely wiping across his face with a jarring expression, he could register the grating vibration rattle his core as if window threatened to break under a strong whirlwind. Too many questions arise and none escapes his lips; _how long, how serious, and most importantly, who the fuck is he/she? He would definitely destroy him or her with a careless of a god_. Too averse to let his mind occupy with anything else, he lets all the sabotaged feeling drain away with that being the architect to his pungent bitterness and rueful sting of the hornet, he remains dead silent through dinner, suddenly finding himself hard to balance himself between being completely empty, drained of energy and running rampant on rekindled fury again as it had a propensity to take over the most effortless host to consume.

Only donned in his wool threadbare sweater that had a faint permeation of stale nicotine and a bit of grimy bleakness of Bucharest’s air clinging onto the fiber and light lounge-wear pants, he fiddles around with the food and pays only half-attention to the food before reluctantly stuffing himself with it. “I’m gonna do the same, fucking jet lag and everything, I’m fucking tuckered.” If he had more of a stored energy, he might had shot more venomous daggers and raised his voice, but they seem to dip down a notch without him even trying. Deep sunken features making his razor-sharp cheekbones more prominent, he rubs the dark streak underneath his eyes with his worn and warm fingertips. If his sweeping anger had been evergreen, he would have percolated it repeatedly over in his head until the gritty bitterness cling onto every pore of his body until it created a devastating friction and his own explosive energy boomeranged right back to implode on itself. “See, I’m not particularly hungry and your fucking cooking skill has dwindled. I bet it’s lacking a _certain_ ingredient.” The void seem to widen with exposed ribcages, turning bared teeth upon the crevasse with remnants of stubborn emotion turning pins and needles behind the eyeballs. Exhausted, yet unable to shut his bulging hazel which seem to diffuse with crimson as veins become more visible through unusually obscured orbs, the unperturbed sounding slumber is a light-year away compared to how enraptured he had been feeling only about an hour ago. Finally succumbing to sleep as the gray hues bask and slant upon the guest bedroom window, his tightly shut eyes immediately open with every appendages still creaking with quivering tightness. Literally dragging himself downstairs with unkempt hair sticking out in all weird angles with smeared blackness hangs down to his cheekbones, he disregards the greeting and immediately gravitates towards the strong coffee. “I’m not a fucking morning person and what a bloody horrible morning to be awaken to.” Giving a once-over the spread of food, he quickly grabs a piece of fried egg and slaps on the cheese, along with the bread, butchering open as if he would crack the ribcage open.


	24. Chapter 24

Sitting at the table, with a large spread of food laid out, watches Nigel storm into the dining room like a sleepy grump of a tornado. After he greeted his brother cheerfully, he hands the other a cup of specially brewed coffee just for him. “I have a few errands to run today, if you would like you may join me, if you wish.” He waited patiently to see what Nigel’s reply would be. Their breakfast was self serve and he drank strong black tea with mint alongside his plate of food. Knowing that his twin was not a morning person he was going to have to wait until the other woke up more, to gauge whether his brother was still angry with him or not. He had appeared rather mad last night, and had barely touched his food which was definitely not like Nigel at all. His twin always had a large appetite. For his twin not to eat much last night; made him worry, only just a little. After he finished his tea, and breakfast he let Nigel stay with the laid out food for a while so he could go change his clothes and get ready. “Eat what you like, I’ll return to clear it away shortly once I get ready to leave.” He told his twin from the dining room archway. Upstairs, he stood in front of his full length mirror, deciding on what he wanted to wear for the day. He had been very relaxed this weekend with his wardrobe because of Nigel being here. So today, he choose something flamboyant and one of his favorite suits.

The suit he chose for the day was black, with dark purple pinstripes, paired with a dark purple silk shirt, and matching paisley tie. He adjusted his tie in the mirror, using a double Windsor knot like usual. Once he was dressed, he went back downstairs carrying his suit jacket over one arm. Nigel was nowhere to be found in the kitchen or the dining room. He didn’t go looking for his brother just yet and took the time to clear away the leftover food; cleaning and straightening up the dining room. After he was finished, he went upstairs to look for his wayward twin. He found him in the guestroom, getting dressed. Standing in the doorway like a silent shadow he admired Nigel from behind for a for moment. He had one hand on the door frame. Clearing his throat he announced his presence to the other. “I see that you decided to accompany me, very good.” Walking over to his brother, he turned the other facing him, and adjusted the collar of his shirt for him. The whole time, he had a half smile on his face. Head bent down slightly, with his eyes gazing directly into Nigel’s. “When you found out I was in an affair still the day you arrived here, it made you angry. How does that make you feel, Nigel?” He was using techniques that he might use in the office, on his twin now. He wanted to get a feel for how deeply his brother’s jealousy of others affections for him ran. If it was as he suspected, he would be able to use Nigel’s anger and jealously, to harness it in different ways.

Listening to Nigel, while he finished buttoning his twin’s shirt for him, he smoothed a hand over the wide open collar of the shirt. “You should wear your new blazer with this shirt. It would look nice together, and you will make it look dashing.” He paid his brother a compliment, because one he knew it was true, since they looked identical. And two because he figured he should say good things to his brother more frequently. He wasn’t a nag, nor did he ever say bad things, but he wanted to boost Nigel’s self-worth. He was also trying to gauge whether or not Nigel was still mad. He wanted his twin brother to know that he was the most important thing in the world to him now. All of his time and energy, for the most part would go into making sure that his twin would want for nothing. If that meant putting up with Nigel’s moods, and eccentricities, that was ok. They were both unique individuals, that put them in a class all of their own. What better than to be paired together, like a complementary set. They balanced each other out, and made up for what the other lacked. While it might not be readily obvious that He himself lacked anything, it was mostly things that he kept hidden until the surface. Holding the new blazer of Nigel’s for him, he helped him slip it on, and smiled approvingly at his handsome appearance. “Magnificent, as per usual. We have a few places to go today. The last being the grocery store, if that is quite ok with you?” 

__

A hand shoved inside the side of the waistband, with another absentmindedly chomping over the makeshift sandwich with a forced vigor, mornings remained to be his redoubtable foe which he couldn’t come to triumph over. Even when he had been redux to the past to begin his life anew, the concept would be refractory. Too busy trying to scan and take in the other spread of food as he hadn’t fully satiated himself the night before, Hannibal’s words are the last thing to etch between the crevices of the brain. Like the bustle and hustle of the crowds roistering over the city’s bars and in an attempt to snap out of the suffocating sleepiness, he falls into a ruminative silence before shrugging his shoulders. A silent acceptance with a bit of reluctance. He had nothing better to do during the weekend anyways and it wouldn’t be until the weekday when Hannibal got busy enough that he would consider breaking the news of him - he is still ruminating over which one should come first; the revelation of him going back to his academic pursue or of him having to go back to Europe for foreseen amount of time to take care of some untied business with Darko and making a visit he had avoided since leaving the city of light like a phantom, not even leaving the prominent existence of himself. Taking an audible chomp as he feels the teeth clatter and tightly clamp, he imperceptibly grinds his teeth together and shoots a look that says ‘I’m still fucking pissed,’ and waits until his twin leaves. Then, he begins his rambunctious feast of pungent flavors, exploding in his mouth as tumultuous onset of fireworks and flaring morsels gulp down his greedy throat. 

With the coffee kicking in faster than usual and craving a cigarette, his parched and cottony mouth needs more than a just regular cup of joe. Hoping he could get more of what seems to be coursing through his bloodstream at all times, perhaps he could delve into making a stop at the liquor store and getting some good-quality whiskey when the opportune chance comes around. Moving in an autopilot after popping a piece of olive inside his mouth, he starts up the stairs to quickly retreat inside the guest room, his mind divided in equilibrium between the fucking revolver he just can’t seem to locate and another one of his absolute necessities, his damn wallet. Moving about the guest room like a mindless whirling tornado, he dumps all the content of the shoulder bag onto clutter-free floor to rummage for a suitable pair of dark trousers. “I’d rather get the hell out of this fucking historical preservation that reminds me too much about unsavory creature than letting the senility seep into every fucking pore of my body.” Just about to bend down to pull his slimmer-cut trousers and hook a belt around his hard waist, he is reminded of Hannibal’s (what seems like) omnipresence, as if the other already predicted beforehand. The words ‘don’t you ever know to fucking knock’ oscillating and pressing tight against the top of his throat, but the burst of anger abates in half a heartbeat after confirming the room’s door had been wide open via a turn over his shoulder. His body still creaking with both jet lag and a bit of brewing jealousy and anger like rusty, corroded oil pump of an internal combustion engine, he lets Hannibal turn him around without protest for once, although there’s still a bit of enigmatic quality to his expression. The only giving hint would be his waving hazel, ablaze with spreading flame behind them. “What the fuck do you think? I am accepting it so fucking well like a betrayed former lover.” The cold reality had been too many fucking thing had changed between them and perhaps it was time to self-medicate on that, but he wasn’t ready to let that go just yet. 

Finding Hannibal’s lain hand to be quite stabilizing, what it used to be an empty cave full of dark column of mist now vacates to injected with stampede of blood-fueled fury, as the corpse underneath him reduces into an indistinguishable puddle of jagged remnants of flesh and tissues, disintegrated and unrecognizable of the former manifestation. It would be the most dishonorable death that this individual would face - even disregarding the only one rule he strictly followed; never killing women. “Who but you would put those ridiculously extravagant suit to attend to a bunch of errands, more so, to go to a fucking grocery market.” Thrusting a hand over the hem of the shirt as soon as his twin finishes buttoning it up, the edges of his tense face softens along with the onslaught of contouring sunlight, brimming next to them in almost a dramatic halo. All sharp features, ruggedness and refined dapperness combined between their split reflection. Somewhat suspicious of Hannibal’s abounding compliments and of his gander, he raises an eyebrow in both curiosity and intrigue before extending both arms in succession to finish his own swank, almost exclusive to those dear and intimate. “This particular one looks few notches better than those god-fucking-awful plaids and paisley… tie.” Finally perceiving Hannibal’s whole attire as his falcon-like scan sweeps to give a once-over, he rakishly tugs the tie in disapproval. Too many fucking patterns clashing for his liking, as he would either stick to mishmash of patterns in his bowling shirts or have it strictly stark and plain in usual monochromatic ensemble. With a roll of his shoulders, coupled with a mischievous tug underneath the double Windsor knot of the tie, he bumps his hips before extending a hand, the palm side up. “Now where the fuck did you put my wallet and likes? I don’t see it anywhere.”


	25. Chapter 25

His own hands smooths down his tie mimicking the tug on it that his brother had done. It was almost as if he could feel the ghost of his twin touching the tie still. With an easy smile, a half quirk of his lips, and a cheerful mood, he can’t help the good mood that he is in. At least Nigel is talking to him and that is the most important thing. “One should aspire to look one’s best, no matter what activities you might be doing. It makes a good impression.” Turning to the side a little he checks himself once over in his brother’s mirror. Standing side by side they looked like two identical handsome devils. It was very aesthetically pleasing for him to see them both dressed so fine. He knew that the world was their oyster and they could take whatever they wanted. With Nigel at his side, he felt unstoppable, he had his twin backing him up. If they could get over their differences, and get along, there would be nothing that could get in their way, and that was what he was putting all of his cards on. “Thank you, my dear. I will take that as a compliment.” With a raised eyebrow, he turns his head from side to side, looking at his own profile in the mirror, and he adjusts his tie. He had his hair slicked back, and not parted to the side. He was looking sharp, and glances at Nigel in the mirror briefly. “We could get your hair cut, while we are out if you like. It’s getting rather long.”

He knew it was better to suggests things to his brother, than to make demands, or give orders. His twin had a strong will of his own, and he wasn’t going to force him to do anything. Everything had to be his own choice. Quoting at his brother he said. “ _ Vain trifles as they seem, clothes have, they say, more important offices than to merely keep us warm. They change our view of the world and the world’s view of us. _ ” Once he his brother asked about his wallet he looked innocently around the room, and as if he was trying to help his brother look for the lost object. “Did you check the pocket of the pants you wore yesterday? You always did have a habit of throwing your clothes about willy nilly.” He knew for a fact that he had put his twin’s wallet back just where he found it. It was just like Nigel to accuse him of moving his things. Maybe if he didn’t leave his room looking like a wrecking ball came through, he would be able to find his belongings. After his brother found the wallet in question, he hovered around the doorway. “I shall meet you downstairs, I’m going to go fetch my coat.” Pivoting on his heel, he exited the room, and glided down the stairs, in his shiny black leather shoes. Grabbing his keys from the hook on the wall where they always could be found, he moved into the foyer, and took a coat off the rack, that would go well with his outfit.

Nigel met him own in the foyer, and they walked out to the car together. While he had waited for his brother, he took a spare key off his key ring, and then handed it to the other. “No questions just yet, my dear. Just know this is for in case something should ever happen to me.” It was extremely dangerous doing the things he did. And he had no illusions to the fact that he could potentially die at any moment. If something were to happen to him, he would at least like for all of his things to go to someone in the family. With Nigel here now, he felt a sort of relief knowing that everything would go to the one person who deserved it the most. He planned in the near future to change his will so that everything he owned would go to Nigel. If and when he died, he didn’t care what happened to his effects. Nigel had not been adopted by their aunt and uncle and was not privileged to have grown up the same way. It only made sense that his own twin would be the person to receive everything, the money including. Behind the wheel of the Bentley, he drove them both to a large bank that he used just one of his safety deposit boxes. Getting out of the car, he beckoned for Nigel to follow him, as he walked inside. Once the two of them were locked inside the room, that would allow him to open the box he had at this location, he swept his hand out to the side, motioning for his twin to step up to the box. “Go ahead open it. Consider this every birthday I have ever missed.” He knew every object within and the whole contents of the box, it was full of fake passports, ID cards, spare keys for the house, a pinkie ring with their family crest on it, and 100 thousand US dollars.    

__

Humping his back and shaking his head so hard that he hears the slightest rattle inside his brain, he sighs dramatically as he rummages through the every corner, nooks and crannies of the suite and bathroom, the places he had left a lasting impression along the darkened corridors of the sanctuary. Every place without the perseverance of another living thing, to accompany Hannibal in whole. Although drastically different in their methods and coping mechanisms to paint the another layer upon the preexisting built-up of their innateness, he could see the appeal and perceive the presumable reason. His own dominance already erased as if he wasn’t there; all the meticulousness and cleanliness implied a total control made the other feel complete. The very concept that had been thrown overboard with the unexpected curve-balls. “I’m merely aspiring to signally successful at preventing myself from becoming a fucking white flame that would burn through the very walls I have built up faster than the speed of brewing anger melting them down in glop.” Standing in a bit of a tip-toe, he sweeps his vulture-like gaze upward above the dresser before becoming an embodiment of a ravaging storm, reincarnated into a whipping breeze that ransacks through every movable object in his projected path. “Of course, you still have an incorrigible talent in filtering out a non-compliment to make whatever the fuck your conundrum of a mind accepts it to be.”  Pushing a stubborn lock by curling it around the whorl of his ear, he gives a once-over before abruptly sliding away on the tile, his socked feet making an effortless turn. His parted locks gently cup around and pokes the thin flap of skin underneath his deeply sunken ridge, just short of the corner of his left eye. “Stop blabbering in enigmatic poetry. I wear whatever the fuck that accentuates my assets, if I can even make the kitsch shit appealing, then I’ll elevate that and transform it into a couture look.”    

_ Where the fuck did he slip those pants off? _ Knowing that Hannibal probably would’ve trailed his behind and picking whatever crumbs off like a maid, he doesn’t have to contemplate hard to register the articles had been already moved to an unforeseeable location. An involuntary twitch along the corner of his eyebrow strengthens the passing thought of him burning every fucking paisley ties in Hannibal’s personal closet, his body, precisely his shoulder protests in acute scream as he finally beats the bushes as a familiar bulge greets him in the master bathroom. Thrusting his hand inside the pockets for other necessities, only finding a few crumbled Romanian Leu and few dollars in change, he makes a mental note of buying some Marlboro cigarettes in boxes when they get to the grocery store. Checking both his identification and motorcycle registration for expired date, he purses his lips together, wanting to make sure he doesn’t forget every pivotal step he would take once he makes back to Bucharest; renewing the latter, having putting an end to his vulgarian life (at least in his accustomed way of acting as a chaperon with hoards of girls and giving off a vibe as a bouncer or better, a sparkplug enforcer. After making his way back to the guest room to transfer the rest of the contents from his leather jacket to the blazer, he retrieves his keys and a quarter-full flask, which he immediately empties. Kneading his palms against his face and growling into them, growing whey-faced as he snakes a hand into the closet and searches for an overcoat that simply isn’t there. A fucking wonder why he hadn’t packed a fucking coat in the midst of fall is an unsolvable mystery. A leather jacket wouldn’t cut in this seeping breeze that would cut through the thin fabric that plasters upon his waist and arms without any give. “Fucking haircut aside, I need a goddamn coat before I freeze my fucking ass off.”

Starting down the stairs and pulling his brown longwings on with each of his foot perched on two flight of stairs, he raises both investigative and skeptical gaze upon the spare key. Hannibal had another penchant of making a mundane thing melodramatic and suspenseful, this was no exception. It didn’t seem like vouchsafing to him at all and his inquisitive nature immediately wants to prod at the issue, but he keeps his mouth zipped. The unfamiliarity of the city eggs on the revealing of Hannibal’s sibylline act and the gradual excitement is like Nostradamus’ statements coming in half-truths.  _ After there is great trouble among mankind, a greater one is prepared. _ That sort of thing. Concurrently, he wants to prod his twin for sudden change in his behavior. “You’re not gonna get into your fucking coffin and place a stake over your heart, are you?” Sitting cross-legged and idly and mindlessly tapping the sole of the shoes against the storage compartment, he leaps from his seat in a blaze and generated burst of energy upon the somatic motion to drive him to be indefatigable, or better, knocking off his intransigent walls for the other to climb over, if his twin already hadn’t done it. The weight of the key becomes a sudden responsibility, not as a burden, but something of a surreptitious matter shared only between those two. Speculations taking a whirling shape, but the image remains intelligible as he follows Hannibal like a trained dog for once, without profusely refuting or defiantly repulsing the idea. Enthusiasm rubs off every crease of his fingerprint as the key clicks through the keyhole, the chamber reveals more abundance and clandestine articles than he could make of - of course, his cache was still inside the latch underneath his desk back in his office, but nothing of this significance and poignancy. More than money and all the other familiar appurtenance he was used to seeing in the likes of his risky profession, his fingers immediately clutch around their crest, with the heraldic symbol of serpent representing wisdom, cunning, and mystery, which would define the Lecter name. “Now I can’t fucking help but to think that the mansion isn’t the only property you own.” Picking up the crest and wearing it on his pinkie, he waves his hand around, watching it gleam and reflect upon the shiny surface. His broad grin spreading faster than the silence spreading in the middle of the night.     


	26. Chapter 26

“You would be correct, about that statement.” He answered in reply to Nigel guessing that the old Lecter mansion wasn’t the only place he owned. He watched as his twin put the small ring on his pinkie and admire it. “You may be the first to know, but I own properties all over. Most are safe houses, in case I should ever need to go on the run given the circumstances.” Taking a stack of neatly pressed bills he handed one to Nigel, and started to pack everything but the money he gave his twin, and the pinkie ring away. “That should suffice, for now. Please do not lose that ring, it was our mother’s.” He gave Nigel a slow and steady nod, and used the key and locked the box back up. He handed the key back to his twin, and pressed it into his palm. From his wallet, he plucked a small card, and that too, he handed to Nigel. “This has the bank’s address, and box number on it. If you should have need of anything else from here.” At the word here he taps lightly one on the lid of the metal box. Once done, he called the teller back in so that they could put the box back in the wall of numbered slots, of other deposit boxes. Leading the way, he left the bank, and walked back to the car with his twin trailing behind. At the Bentley, he turned and handed Nigel the keys. “Go ahead and get in awhile. I shall be right back. I am going to walk right across the street to that post office and check on a delivery.” He pointed to their left where a post office sat on the corner, and he cheerfully walked towards it to see if they had a package for him. He had a pink slip saying that it arrived.

He arrived at at the car just a few moments later, carrying a heavily packaged, medium sized box, that had ‘FRAGILE’ stamped all over it. Back at the Bentley he motioned for Nigel to pop the trunk, and he carefully, laid his prize inside, and shut the boot of his car. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he turned to look at his brother, with a genuine smile. “And we are underway.” Driving to their next destination, it’s some 13 minutes away, just outside Johns Hopkins University. He turns on the radio to a Sirius station that only plays oldies, and classical music, but keeps the volume you low. Their next stop was a charcuterie and wine store that he frequents quite often. It was called the wine source, but it wasn’t the only thing they carried. They had spirits, and certain craft beers also. They had a fine selection of cheese, and sold fresh baked bread. “I have an order to pick up, is there anything you would like? You are welcome to come in and look around, while I wait.” He got out of the car and headed inside the store. He liked to keep his bar well stocked, and was always buying more wine for his collection. He drank wine often enough, and was always serving it at his dinner parties, and when he had guests over for a meal. He bypassed the aisle all together, and right to the counter to pick up his order. He placed an order just about once a month, restocking the wine and spirits that he knew he used the most, be it for cooking or drinking.

“Good day, Stephanie. I am here to pick up my order, Thank you.” From a pocket he produced a white card, with the order information on it along with his name. He knew just about everyone’s name by heart, and they all knew him fairly well. If there was a new wine, that he wanted to try, they were the first people he went to, to get it. They were also one of the few places that kept his favorite wine stocked, just for him. Batard-montrachet and always a grand cru. It was one wine he would go to any lengths to get, but knowing that they kept it on stock just for him, made it convenient, so he didn’t have to deal with special ordering or online shipping. While they went to get the cases of wine and spirits on his list, he looked around the store for Nigel. He found him standing in front of the whiskey section, and he knew instantly, what his brother was going to most likely purchase. “Some habits, never die. You are quite predictable my dear, but at least you have good taste, and that I can forgive.” He knew from experience that when they were younger, they used to sit on the roof of their flat drinking, and trying different fine spirits, and making a list of the ones they liked best. Sometimes they would even quiz each other on what kind of spirit they were drinking to grow familiar with the different types, and brands. “Why don’t you pick out what you like, and I will add it to my order. Since I am buying a large selection for the whole month.” 

___

With the sum of money Hannibal had left before the other left for the States and almost immediately dropping out of the institution he had been attending in just few months before advancing to fill the required hours for the field studies, all of his aim and efforts had been concentrated into accumulating as much hard cash as possible. Never the one to be frugal with his budgets, the road to owning his own meager one-bedroom flat along with few places he could retreat without having to grow weary had been circuitous for sure. With his knowledge gained from their little games of palate testing, although not as refined and didn’t continuously practiced his acumination as his brother had been, his sapour in picking up distinctive and subtle flavor extended a notch above the normal crowd. More of an aficionado than a connoisseur, he had his own stash of local and seasonal liquors from his second native country, the distilled spirit produced with only plum and the go-to drink he would take into a consideration when greeting confidants of people around his close circle. The extension only deserved for a minority, even in his establishment. If any sort of suspicion had risen from the law enforcement, rumors going about the dynamic duo’s illicit risque business floating around the surface that would need to be mollified, or much worse, the recent wild spree of kills or an occasion where missing bodies turned up in erratic places around Bucharest, they would lay low in outskirts of Bucharest or even go through long lengths of long-distance traveling with their emergency stash, filled with embezzled money from their lifetime partners and moneys attained in other unscrupulous manner. If he had been ever hypercritical, his own methods of getaway lacked both cohesion and the duration he could remain in hideout. All he ever had was a permanently rented (the law prohibited him from owning a property within a national park) cabin by what used to be a thriving touristy destination, now almost abandoned and merely deduced as a passing point along the entry to Transylvanian area and Municipal Bucharest .    

He wasn’t going to be unimpeachable as Hannibal was capable of maintaining all the properties with his extended fingers like the gossamer, yet tenacious hold on each of them. “Which one’s the closest? I demand to know some of the locations, if it ever becomes absolutely necessary.” First, this could lead up to be a clever subterfuge to intransigently bonding back with his twin by making a short excursion and second, to draw a mental map which would come in handy when he would be in a position to be veracious without providing any sophistry when the time comes. That would be years to come, but still, he liked to have that into his account. There would be nothing to add to Hannibal’s explanation. Letting the silence dawn between both of them, he reciprocates the nod and exchanges cognizant gazes. Molecules flaring, growing wistful in ardor and aspiration. It had been both concise and thorough at the same time - and with his plan solidifying to bury the life in Bucharest to begin anew and heavily leaning against coming up with a wicked plan to have his twin think he had been permanently going back to Europe, he hooks the key to the key-ring and takes out the last cigarette he had been saving, and puts the pinkie ring deep inside the inner pocket where he would feel the impression by his heart. The emblem of superiority above all the others and their triumph manifested into a complex enigma of a crest. Growing esurient with both obscuring haze from the nicotine taking effect like it would the initial burn of vintage whiskey, he awaits for his brother with his back curved along the gleaming reflection of himself, the lump of a whirling fireball finally having extinguished as the burden dissipates down to nothing. With the press of the button and smoothly getting into the passenger seat, he puts the cigarette out before exhaling the lingering smoke out from his nostrils. His desideratum had been filling in nicely, as if the irreparable void had been slowly mending with the melting animosity. Spending the precious times with registering wrongs and spurning the past would be needless. 

Even the entrance of the store suggests the well-stocked inventory, as neatly organized aisles and some labels he hadn’t been familiar with even with his experience of dipping his foot into being a bartender in his fruitful age suggests otherwise. As if having stepped into a liquor enthusiast’s paradise and sticking his head out like a curious and watchful meerkat, he browses the row of craft beer; one particular beer from Stone Brewing Company sticks to his mind as he grabs a bottle of an Oaked Arrogant Bastard Ale, the slogan spot-on with how he perceives his brother to be. “ _ Hated by many. Loved by few. You're not worthy. _ ” Fighting to let out an audible cackle, instead, he lets a puckish grin spread in a widening slash as he watches Hannibal with his peripheral vision, the bottle hidden behind his blazer before picking out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Double Black Label. No matter what other kinds he had given a try, the contrasting texture of decadently sweet vanilla along with the potent smokiness and malt always had stuck to him between the creases of his brain. He could still recall the pleasant complexity of flavor sitting well inside the stomach as the alcohol loosens both his wired head and sedulous construct of his disposition. “You know me, give me fucking whiskey meatballs, whiskey-cream filled chocolates and fucking mounds of thick-cut bacon and I’m all fucking set. Along with this particular beer.” Sticking a label in front of Hannibal’s face, he reads off the description. “And Double Bastard Ale for more intensity. It suits you, when November rolls around, we should get them in fucking crates.” Popping the bottle open without consolidating their orders together with the end of the key, he shoves the half-quaffed bottle into Hannibal’s hand and wraps an arm around the other, striding down in brimming enthusiasm. “Look, a fucking Brewdog, ‘ _ Sink the Bismarck!’ _ , it’s fucking stronger than that Johnnie Black, a whopping 41%. Let’s get you fucking drink on that with all the charcuterie and have some fun like we used to do in the past.”  


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://park.org/Korea/Pavilions/PublicPavilions/KoreaImage/hangul/litera/dis-frog/
> 
> The disobedient frog part comes from this Korean folktale. It really fits Nigel to a tee!

Frustrated, annoyed and exasperated, can not even begin to describe how he feels right now. It is beyond his limits of understanding how one single person can be the embodiment of everything he loves and hates all rolled into one. It’s a confusing algorithm of just clashing contrasts. If he had been anyone else, he would have found a way to dispose of Nigel as quickly and quietly as he could muster. Right now he wanted nothing more than to escort his unruly twin out of his favorite wine store without causing a scene. After he is handed the opened can, he takes the Johnnie Walker from Nigel, plucking it from his grasp, and the can of beer up to the register, hissing icily under his breath. “Please refrain from touching anything else.” Setting the items on the counter he selects a few cheeses from the cold case, and a thick slab of pork belly, to make bacon for his twin. Despite the stressful situation, he is as calm and cool as usual, inside he is a maelstrom of emotions. Deep inside there is something interesting in the way that Nigel is able to get away with things no other soul on the planet could. While he is paying for the order and the added items, he picks up a box with twelve bottles of wine in it can gives Nigel the keys. “Be a dear and start taking this out to the car.” He did it mainly to keep his brother’s disastrous hands full. Turning back to the young lady at the counter, he tilts his head to the side cordially and makes his apologizes for Nigel’s behavior. “You’ll have to excuse my twin, he’s a bit difficult sometimes… He is still used to Romanian ways, I’m afraid.” If he ever rolled his eyes, his would be so far into the back of his head, he’d  go blind.

Thanking the clerk, he uses the hand truck, to wheel out the other two cases, and carries the bag out to the car. He dumped the remaining beer out, and threw away the can, in the recycling, before he got to the car. The corner of his right eye twitched slightly with annoyance. It was taking every ounce of willpower he had not to lose his shit at Nigel for acting like he was raised in a barn. Packing the food items away in a cooler pack he keeps in the trunk of his car, he gets in only when everything is safely put away, and the hand truck returned. “I would appreciate, if you were on your best behavior while you are out and about with me. Believe it or not, I would have killed anyone else for less.” He sat gripping the steering wheel tight, making the leather creak under the pressure. It took a lot to get a reaction out of him, or to make him angry. Nigel seemed to be an expert at doing both. All he wanted was to go out, and be able to enjoy his weekend without having to babysit his wildling brother. With a sudden laugh, that was rather unusual for him, he said to his brother. “You are the reason there is a saying that goes. ‘I can dress you up, but I can’t take you out.’” With a little shake of his head, he turned the key in the ignition, and pulled away from the wine and spirits store. Not that Nigel probably cared, he told him anyways. “The college that I went to is just about five minutes west of here, that was how I found this place.”

As suddenly as his anger arrived it was gone, like a puff of smoke. He didn’t know what he was getting so worked up about. Nigel was always going to be just that, Nigel. Most likely, he would never change, and if he did, had to do so of his own choice. He couldn’t make his brother change, he could only try to coax him in the right direction. Driving south back down route 83, he drove towards their next and last destination, a whole foods grocery store, that wasn’t to far from where the house was. On the drive over, he did something that he never did before in his life. He fretted over how Nigel saw him. In his mind he was fine just as he was, and he loved himself more than anything in the world. Something though had him wondering how his twin viewed him. Probably as a stuffy, uptight wind bag, and he wasn’t even in his forties yet. They were just 37, soon to be 38 this coming November. With a small sigh, he admitted to Nigel. “Most days, I feel more like a parent to you than a sibling. It is a hard habit to break. Even when we were young and carefree, I was never too carefree.” In truth he had always felt a little obligated to be the older responsible one. Always looking out for Mischa and Nigel, and then… just Nigel. Even as a teenager he hadn’t been particularly fun, and he had mere always went along with his twin’s shenanigans, because his ideas of fun, were not what the other young adults viewed as fun. At the time, he also did not know how Nigel would have viewed him had he known, that his big brother was a serial killer in the making. Never in his life had he ever doubted himself, he was always sure of who and what he was. Always knew everything that he liked, his particular tastes, were easy to figure out. But just one day, he would have liked to not have the burdened of being the eldest, and or, to always worry about what his other half was doing. When he was younger he wasn’t too fussed about self-image or keeping up appearances, now he had much much more to lose. He couldn’t risk stepping out of line, for if he did… when he did… there would be a bloodbath, and people would surely die. For just one moment he closed his eyes while driving, and opened them again, like wiping a slate clean. There was a deep compulsion to buy a teacup, and let it smash on the floor, wanting nothing more than for a redo.             

___

Running a curious fingertip all over the labels as he activates more of his scrutinizing mode as he scans through different eccentricities and hues of the malt and hop, he goes back to being a teenager again. The period when he went through too much of an adjustment period that he didn’t know which temperature to get used to. The strict side of getting used to Hannibal’s tutoring and meticulous time frame, divided in half an hour increments. Along the weekends and some nights came, every bottled up energy would go rampant and let loose. Local beers and limited editions aside, almost all the draft beers, he hadn’t came across in a small country full of traditional distilled spirits and even so, being able to retain only small quantities as they usually were seasonal and produced in small qualities, he wishes he could own half the store, at least the liquor part as his private bar. Nothing fancy and elaborate; just a conveyor belt set up where he could lounge with his feet extended out in front in a wide V with the press of the button, whatever he desires would instantly grasp onto the span of his talon-like vice grip, drowning in rich smokiness and decadent whirl of caramel-like aged amber. What it used to be a bit of the quirky eccentricity in his impish, frolicsome gaze substantiating with a vital spark, he ignores Hannibal’s icicle comment about restraining from touching anything else. Like that disobedient frog that did everything the opposite and not giving a fuck about the consequences and what the other people perceived him to be, unless there had been a catastrophic event that would finally cease his erratic and capricious behavior, it would be considerably difficult for him to switch the wires, sending different signals. While he was used to completing mundane task of filling in the ledger for all the assets and liabilities, he hasn’t been shoddy at all when it came to registering minute details when spirited fillip strikes; including on the matter of vexing furor in his brother’s unperturbed pool of unresponsiveness. Still titillated over the wide expanse of the store and its selection, he obliges rather enthusiastically and flashes a toothy smirk, before pivoting and dashing away with the box within the firm clutch, with a chin gauging and preventing him from falling over and causing (more) stirrup. 

Before his twin makes an appearance again with trailing remnants of implosion visible with microscopic view only reserved to few, including himself, he knows Hannibal isn’t completely free of being an imperturbable robot and a vampire who wouldn’t even wince when pierced with a fucking knife on his shoulder. If their world had been a gigantic series of mural painting, Hannibal’s would be fine, intricate blending of etched lines, surrounded in well-built layers of pitch-black along with chiaroscuro of night, resembling subtle glow of light illuminating the picture. His would be entirely different with bursts of colors, sketchy and thick impastos of choppy strokes with visible sketching lines, more gestural and determined to foment the viewers. Not bound by any academic guidelines which would silence his natural voice or his representation. Putting away the box full of wine and quickly making a stop near the convenience store adjacent the gas station to get his desired pack of cigarettes, he adheres himself against the back side of the Bentley as Hannibal keeps himself busy with the task of stocking the purchased items inside the trunk and even some in the back seat. “Oh, I’m fucking sure you would. Just having anyone you find insolent chloroformed and carry that particular pig to be dissected in the trunk,” he muses, already visualizing it clear enough to paint it within his head. “However, I’m sure you do treasure moments when you are encompassed by frenzy, although fleeting. Makes me aroused, playing with incendiary extravaganza of your rather quiescent mind.” His words cut through the twirling smoke, which quickly disintegrates with the gust as he perches against the leather, sinking into it further as he crosses his legs, the sole of saddle oxford tapping against the compartment. “I’m not a fucking dress-up doll you can merely use for the intended occasion. I’ve got all the other  _ assets  _ you can be more  _ enthusiastic  _ about,  _ embrace  _ it all.” Reciprocating that short gushing burst of laugh, the tip of his tongue presses against the back of his teeth, lopsided slit accentuating the expression.  

Following along with precept of Hannibal’s adroitness, already drawn the efficacious discharge of emotion from his brother with the most calm-temperament, he extinguishes the cigarette before they continue their purposeful trip. With his arms crossed in front and fingertips tapping absentmindedly over the belt across his chest, then, he realizes through his irregular diet, extensive outdoor activities and years of drug use, he had acquired his lissome frame, on the thin side. No wonder none of the few clothes he had brought along didn’t fit as well as they used to. Another somewhat simper laughter breaking the comfortable silence, the only whizzing cars and quiet percussion coming from the radio, along with his occasional tap and soft exhale reduce to being a stream of white noise. “You realize you’re only a fucking hour older than me. A fucking paradox, you should break free of engrossment and live a little. You being stuck-up aside, I had speculated from your vampire grandma aesthetics that you’d be much more full of drudge and moth-eaten, antiquated attitudes.” His rampant bibulous activities caused him to black out on certain strands of memories, but one occasion, he could vaguely recall. Christmastime, Hannibal had been uncharacteristically overly excited about putting the mistletoe around the entire apartment along with a small, but elaborately and tastefully decorated tree in the center of the living room. Along with feast full of simple yet succulent fare full of meat, as churlish he had been, he recalls stuffing himself up to his throat and imbibing himself until he had been more sloshed than his twin. That night, everything stopped being lukewarm. Being hot wasn’t cutting it either. It had been passionate, white, scalding hot as every fiber and pore on his body screamed with escaping vigor and ungainly movements of his limbs, along with the undeniably sweet-laden compote-like scent of liquor and fluids clinging onto the expanse of his skin like viscid honey. With a mischievous smirk widening along as his crossed leg mirrors the fluid motion when Hannibal thankfully shuts the world out for a moment, he pushes his arched back to slant closer to his twin’s frame, a hand sleepwalking over with a purpose. Smoothing it over his thigh, his fingertips remain barely touching, but close enough to feel the vibration and the heat resonating from underneath. “Speaking of carefree, why not get loathsomely orgiastic? I haven’t seen you do that ever since when you were a teenager. Even back then, you were too enraptured to being a bibliomania.”  


	28. Chapter 28

After he pulls the Bentley into the parking lot of whole foods grocery store, he stays behind the wheel for a few moments contemplating his brother’s words. “You do realize that age does not equal maturity.” He gave Nigel a sidelong glance with a smirk that marked deep lines around the corners of his mouth. It was his way of teasing his twin for being a hot-headed child sometimes. “I do realize you are not a doll, how could I forget. A doll would do as it was told.” And not give me a massive headache, but that he did not add. Slyly he pursed his lips and informed his brother. “I quite like to dress you up though. It’s easy, being that we are just alike. And the results are instantly gratifying.” Frozen in place sitting in the car, he glances down to watch the teasing way his twin ghosts his hand to hover over his thigh. His eyes are heavy lidded, and the words float to his ears, like a faint smoke on the breeze. “I do not think it is wise of you to wish such things. It will be disastrous for anyone involved. My ideas about having a good time are not considered… acceptable.” He enjoyed torturing people who deserved it. And had many carnal pleasures, that he kept heavily under wraps, to keep his human veil firmly in place. Just when is was getting heart-stoppingly tense in the car, the sexual tension building up like boiling water. It is so suddenly quiet in the closeness of the car, that one might hear a pin drop. He is saved by a song coming on the radio, that pops the tension like a bubble. The lyrics are almost laughable. ‘Those fingers in my hair, that sly come-hither stare, that strips my conscience bare. It’s witchcraft.’ It was as if the song knew how he felt about Nigel, and his alluring way he had about capturing his attention. Fixing his tie, and smoothing it down the front of his chest, he moves to exit the car. “We mustn’t dally, I would like to get home in a timely manner to fix lunch.”

At their final destination, he got out of the car at last, he had to stop himself from leaning up against the Bentley. He could feel his erection hard against his inner thigh, and it took a second for him to take a deep breath, rearranging himself, then he slipped the keys into a pocket. If Nigel insisted on being a tease, let him. He wouldn’t get as much of a reaction out of him as his brother thought he would.  He had a list in his breast pocket, that he retrieved now; of everything he would need for the week. Mostly he just needed to pick up fresh fruit and vegetables. Along with some other things. This was his favorite place to buy organic ingredients for the many dishes that he makes. He also needed to pick up more honey, of the rare white Hawaiian variety. “Come now, Nigel. Let’s us be swift.” He waited for Nigel to put out the cigarette he was smoking out, then swept his arm up hovering about his twin’s shoulder but not touching, to usher the other inside. Inside he got a cart, and made a beeline for the produce section of the store. He is completely in the zone, picking out ripe-vine and roma tomatoes, inspecting fruit, and selecting the best. So the cart is filling up with artichokes, and a handful of honey-crisp apples.He doesn’t usually need to buy too much, because he’ll only select what he knows that he is planning to make. If there is something impromptu throughout the week that he decides to make, he’ll just make a quick stop on his way home from work.

Too preoccupied with his shopping to notice what his brother his up to. He glances up from his own little world of culinary imaginings and notices that Nigel is nowhere to be found. His twin most likely wandered off, when he disappeared into his own little world of food selection. He thought to make a nice fruit tart with pastry cream at some point in the next day or so. So he also bought blueberries, strawberries, raspberries, and some kiwis along with a two peaches. Going down the baking aisle, he picked up the things that he would need to make the tart crust. He needed some more fine ground flour anyways. After he had was he needed he went in search of his twin. Predictably, he was near the seafood and meat section of the store. Leaving the cart next to his brother, he turned towards him, and inquired. “I hadn’t planned this weeks meals, with you in mind, as your visit was a surprise. Is there anything at all that you like for me to make you?” He was going to have to start planning meals around the both of them, and not just himself. He had been alone for so long that, it was just habit for him to get what he wanted without thinking about anyone else. Even when throwing a dinner party, he did all of the planning. No one ever questioned him on his menus, and everyone always raved about what was served to them. With Nigel here is certainly made things different. “Man the cart, and I’ll follow you. That way I can help you plan some meals around your tastes… And we don’t need anything from this section.” With a narrow-eyed look he steers his twin out of the meat section. “I may perhaps pick up some oysters fresh from the seafood market later in the week.” He already had plans, to serve his brother oysters, snails, and acorns to make him taste better, at any chance he got. 

___

Idly smoothing over the invisible crease on Hannibal’s trousers and leaning over towards his brother’s direction, he counters, knowing it’s literally effortless when it comes to unleashing that inner kid still needed a whole scrutinization and exploration. Retracting his hand like he would a claw, he could feel that imperceptible, yet surefire hint of Hannibal’s somatization stirring from within, as his does for a bit; words turning to act as a catalyst for the familiar sensation they had probed intensively through their venture as their bodies developed and through both speculation and examination. “And you, you hopped on a fucking bullet train and aged spectacularly horribly fast. A granny with a penchant of cooking and being a wine-hogging mom. No wonder why you manage to function fucking well without insubstantial amount of sleep.” He quips and reciprocates the askance gaze, with an added measure of a slow, downward blink, confirming the hardness which slowly becomes visible as a sign of life showing through the wide mud flat along the intertidal zone where myriads of life existence would be confirmed through needle-like breathing holes, exceeding bounds and pandemic. No matter how out-of-touch they had gotten with each other in physical terms, he was his own worst enemy as his relentlessness wouldn’t stop in this case, either. He persistently remains steadfast, curving through the inner flesh where he feels a bit of undulation with the muscles, even more so perceivable than his own tightening around the stallion of an engine, concurrent to how his own body takes on the occurrence. “I’m positively sure me dressing down makes the bubbling blood to be engulfed in your chest, always tailing me behind like a fucking mother hen you are. It’s not like I didn’t feel the burning laser behind my back - I know for sure it wasn’t just annoyance in that spark of embers.” The tip of his tongue perched and trailing his lower lip in the same ‘come-hither’ movement, his deep-etched eyes and every inch of the muscle unwinds in a serpentine manner, as he briefly sinks into the seat before plucks himself off from the heated seat. The bone-chilling gust couldn’t even abate the resounding linger of the kindled heat, refusing to be put out.   

Rearranging himself to unconsciously check the nonexistent revolver’s frame pressed taut against the dimple of his spine, he exasperatedly sighs, his long exhale briefly crystallizing into a faint puff before being drowned by the rustle of the foliage, the scent of autumn magnifies more than a notch along with seasonal fruits and decorations, nothing discreet about the blaring approaching of Thanksgiving with its advertisements and eye-catching handmade signs associated with the establishment. Never noncommittal, Hannibal moves without wasting a minute as he moves with an impeccable speed. Putting on his magnificent and fake articulating pose of a food connoisseur, he trails his twin slowly, rummaging through asparagus and swinging them like bunch of spears, jabbing and riposting towards the pumpkin display before taking a sample of pumpkin cider, picking up a considerable-sized jar, thinking of mixing it with the whiskey later. After being abruptly stopped by the staff member as he futilely tried to juggle two apples with his dominant hand, he begrudgingly puts one back in the pile before taking the bruised one inside the blazer, taking a huge bite. Before the vehement pyramid of apples collapse and scatter all over the fruit aisle and cause an irreparable ruckus, he swiftly rounds the corner towards the meat and seafood aisle. His hazel glimmering with sparkle, brighter than the North Star, he hugs the cider bottle close to his heart before looking over the giant tiger prawns and succulent filet mignon steaks. “I always fucking wanted what the surf and turf deal was about. I had so much pork soup in my life, I might ooze pork grease like a giant slab of bacon.”

With the pumpkin cider settled into the cart, he picks up three family-pack of strip steak along with filet mignon, intended for tonight’s dinner before shooting daggers at his twin and wheeling the cart away from the meats section. “I fucking want that beef and you can’t stop me!” After putting up a rowdy protest, he moves towards the seafood aisle, picking up those prawns and throwing that inside like he would skip stones over a lake. His diet had been mainly consisted of rich-broth, heavy on thick slabs of pork slices and root vegetables and mostly takeout foods from one-mile radius from his habitant. Fruits and other vegetables, he hadn’t grown so fond of, and oysters listed on the top of the list as ‘despicable thing that literally killed him from inside out.’ He still remembers the putrid sensation of bile bubbling over his throat, which had kept him to pull an all-nighter which he didn’t intend back in his teenage years. The grueling hours spent with buckets, lukewarm water to ease the tight pain of his stomach, churning more repulsiveness back to the other end of the hole until he had nothing inside his stomach. The word alone causes a fucking lump in his throat, which in turn, making his face to immediately scrunch up in a dramatic frown. Wheeling the cart away from the seafood section faster than a rocket launching into the space, he moves to the frozen food section, picking up two samples of vanilla bean ice cream. “You well know what fucking happened with me and those fucking spoiled oysters. I’m not putting those fucking slimy abhorrent saltwater clams ever again.” Picking up a jumbo-sized container of vanilla bean ice cream, he slurps the freshly churned sample into his mouth, sticking his tongue out and rolling it. “Good shit, if you’re planning to make any dessert, I’m all for fucking ice cream and getting fucking drunk on vin chaud.” 


	29. Chapter 29

Holding his hands up in mock surrender, he watches as Nigel heaps a bunch of beef into the cart. His lip curls up in the briefest of snarls for a nanosecond in disgust. He would protest the whole thing, but he knows by the look on Nigel’s face that his mind is made up, and will not be swayed. With a sigh, he accepts it, but knows he will not be eating any of it. “I will cook it for you if you like me to, but you are going to be eating all of that-” he gestures to the detestable mention in the cart.  “…by yourself.” he adds at last. Like the two year old that Nigel sometimes acts like, his twin makes a face at the subject of oysters.  He raises a curious eyebrow at the slightly green around the gills look his brother has now adopted, one assumes just thinking about the oysters. It’s almost enough to make him laugh, but he refrains for his brother’s sake. “You know dear one that oysters have been proven in some cases to be an aphrodisiac.” Licking his bottom lip, he can’t help seeing what kind of reaction he can get out of Nigel, after his little display in the car.  “Maybe that is why, we had such fun the morning after we shared some in the park on our first reunion.” He raises a suggestive eyebrow at his twin, two could play the not-so-subtle tease game. Half the fun of having Nigel around all of the time again, is having someone to meddle with.

“Would you not prefer homemade ice cream to that-” His eyes shift a little, trying to find the right word. -slop…it really is terrible. When I can make some for you at home.” If pouting was something that he could get away with, that might be called what he is doing so now. He can’t help feeling a little petty and petulant about his brother buying things that he could make better from home. He wasn’t going to plead his case, about the junk food, and he certainly wasn’t going to ask him to put it back. If anything, he could just put it back when Nigel wasn’t paying attention. Then he would make some for him at the house, and show him that anything he could make would be far better than anything store bought. “I wouldn’t have guessed you to be one to drink Vin Chaud, being more if a beer, and whiskey man that you are.” He can’t help the Cheshire cat like grin that is plastered to his face, as he follows his twin out of the frozen dairy aisle. He stops to get a small carton of milk while Nigel is busy looking at other junk that he can buy. “I am just about finished, if you are ready to leave.” At that he takes over the cart when his brother isn’t near it, to start heading towards the check out. He would like to leave as soon as can be, so he can get lunch prepared. He already knew what he was going to make, a nice couscous and lentil salad, served on the side of thin sliced Kobe beef.

Waiting in line to check out, he doesn’t pay any attention to his surrounding much, doing his best to tune other people out. He is planning an simple healthy light meal for there lunch for when then go down into the basement again for more training. It wouldn’t do to have such a work out on a heavy stomach. Oblivious in the moment as he is, he does not notice, the person watching him, nor the way Nigel is watching the watcher. When he turns back to look at his brother, he is loading things onto the belt, and just throwing things pell-mell without any sort of organization. Lowering his head a little at Nigel, with both eyebrows raised. “If you could be so kind as to stop man handling the produce, it would put me in better spirits.” Nigel seems agitated for some reason, and wonders if was something he said. “I am allowing you to get ice cream, does that not please you? I will try my best not to micromanage everything little thing that you do.” It was with some reluctance that he let the ice cream pass, but he didn’t have to eat it. And unlike himself, Nigel did not seem to care one way or another what it was that he put into his body. “You could stand to be a little more conscious of what you put in your body, my dear.” While growing old did not bother him one bit, he did like to take care of himself, he worked out, ate healthy, cooking all of his own meals with care and attention to detail. He would like to see his twin give a little more consideration to his own well being. If they were to last in a relationship from here well into old age, he would prefer Nigel not to die of some mundane plebeian cause of death from a poor diet.  

___

With a sweep of his tongue, a decisive stroke of anticipation of what constitutes as the perfect quintessential ‘American dinner’ concocts rather nicely as he flies by the seat of his pants. An insatiable voraciousness etched around the corners of his eyes and lips, brimming with zealous enthusiasm of a beggar who hadn’t been treated with such an extravagant feast. An amused, a bit of fondness sketches more fine lines around his genuine entertainment. “Who the fuck says I will willingly share such sumptuous abundance?” He stacks the beef like it’s the most precious thing in the world. Holding the packs close to his heart like a child wood with his huggie before knock the vermillion packs of meat around in the cart. “I’m going to hog all the fucking steak all by myself.” He declares, before manning the cart and whizzing through the aisle, bee-lining for the check-out area. Shaking his head in a defiant disapproval, he raises an dramatic eyebrow along with a slashing tug of his pulled lips. “Like I give a fuck about aphrodisiacs, I can get mine up anytime, I know you are already chomping at the bit for what’s so fucking imminent.” He didn’t have to see it to believe as he would pour on the coal to get what he desires. With Hannibal’s remark about the fateful day of their reunion and how it unfolded like postcard-worthy littoral landscape would before his eyes, his eyes gleam in a dashing and serpentine manner, like a greedy dragon guarding the hoard of treasure. “Are you coming or not? I’m just breathing really fast. Good fucking times, the fountain of youth.” He could literally hear his one-sided smirk strike further up his cheek as he looks through the lashes. 

Picking up a tacky large glass beer mug en route the checkout, he aligns the cart behind an elderly woman before opening the ice cream tub and giving the lid a thorough lick. “This fucking ‘glob’ will add wonderful indulgence to my fizzy accompaniment and can’t have that either.” Content that he had been half-successful at drawing any kind of visible reaction out of his profoundly nonchalant brother and surprisingly, feeling a bit of a sympathy for him as well, he senses a bit of jealousy brimming through the unique lips. “How nice of you to subtly market yourself in contention for what seems to be unbelievably rich and luscious creaminess. Well, the sky is the fucking limit, so I would believe in yourself to strive for your best.” Giving Hannibal a half-genuine pat in his back, he stops to pick up a pack of cinnamon sticks and two containers of Pringles. “I spike mine with whiskey, whenever I am down with fucking cold, I always have that and it knocks me out like a fucking light. One of my previous classmates got me fucking addicted to that stuff, I wouldn’t drink that adulterated shit without making it more potent.” Circling his shoulders and mentally taking the notes, he percolates over his plan once more; taking this calculated risk would involve many parts, though he had confidence in his ability to turn any outcome to his advantage, but with his twin being both perspicacious and discerning, with both powers of observation and effective in being superlative, it would take everything in his arsenal and caliber. He would have most of his stuff shipped, get his account transferred and deal with the schoolwork to finally materialize the reboot of his projected path.  

Ambling around with a hint of bravado and channeling his hawk-like gaze over the expanse of the space, rows of people ebbing and flowing in the bustling expanse. Drowning out other crowds as his gaze focuses on one man who just looks at his brother with what it seems to be an enigmatic gaze, enough for his brother to notice for sure, but he is too occupied to reciprocate the glare enough to burn a fucking hole through the back of the man’s skull. The man’s gaze is icing up by the minute before a bit of pusillanimous eyes recover to grow more sangfroid within seconds. Even with his quick-witted readablity of different characters who he had crossed upon, the sparks thronging in his brain roars with clamorous discharges, obfuscating his judgment. He isn’t sure if that very man would be the one who Hannibal mentioned of being in an affair before his abrupt visit or one of his acquaintances who just happened to cross paths. Somewhat still lost in reflection, he breaks from the tension as the man pivots off, disappearing through the wall of people. Fingers turn scythes as his short nails perforate through the packaging, Hannibal’s words pluck him from the nebulous encounter. The sensation of walking through stacks of needle begins to abate.. Then sparks right back with Hannibal’s disapproval about his indubitable roughness and reluctant proposition. Wanting to lash out as his adam’s apple bobs with a bit of disturbance, he decides against to ruin the moment as he pulls his most presumptuous facade. “I will stuff myself with whatever the fuck I decide to shove down my throat, it could be cured sausage, folded crepes, a fucking beer float or a Kahlua affogato. I do what I damn please.” With his baritone booming inside the vessel of his mouth, he snatches paper bags and feels the cords tense yet again with furor as he evades his brother, storming out of the store to preclude any more stupid quibbles. 


	30. Chapter 30

He cringes inside, at his brother’s continued use of profane language, but before he can say a word about it, his twin storms off the minute their purchases are rung up. He feels as if everything between him and Nigel is an uphill battle. They take four steps forward and always two steps back. It is a sort of deadly waltz between egos of the highest grade. Not surprising considering they are cut from the same cloth. They are identically different. While they are identical twins, their personalities are so different they might as well be the sun and the moon. They are fire and brimstone, alone they are two completely dissimilar things, but they feed off of each other in many ways. If only they could learn to work together as they once did as children.  _ Had the ravages of time really changed them so drastically? _  Looking at himself as if from a reflection in a mirror, he would have said no. That he hadn’t changed that much, but deep down he knew it would have been a lie. Being away from his brother for so long seemed to have sapped all of the humanity, and love out of him. He was happy, and content with the things he had, and his job, but he was still lonely, and had before Nigel; no one he could genuinely love, and call his own. He was always by choice kept apart from everyone else, even when that wasn’t his true desire, he loved to interact, and study people, but he couldn’t risk letting many getting too close to him. With his brother’s return he felt, like he needed to schedule an appointment to see his psychiatrist, he felt he had a bit of soul searching to do, and maybe try to find his old self again.

Thanking the kind cashier at the grocery store, he gathered up his supplies, and headed back outside, into the sunny midday air. He was trying his best to remain cheerful and positive given the constant teetering see-saw of emotions, and hectic up and downs between himself and his brother. He knew that to make this work, their relationship, friendship, and even love, they would have to come to some sort of truce. It could not be sustained this way as it was now. If they continued down this path of destruction, one of them would surely end up dead. And that would not do, he couldn’t allow that to happen. He did not want to be alone in this world forever. He was no longer young, and had no real plans to marry, but he did want to share what little time he had life in this world with someone whom saw who he really was. Taking a deep breath and letting it down slowly, he walked to the car, and deposited this groceries in the backseat, unlocking the door so that Nigel would be able to get in. “Well it is time we go home now, I hope this venture hasn’t been overly stressful for you my dear.” He commented amicably as he buckled his seat belt, and fidgeted idly with the steering wheel. Sorry was not a word that came easy to him, nor did he feel like he should be sorry for anything that he did, but he hoped that the gifts he had special ordered for his twin with help repair some of the damage. And while he didn’t want Nigel to think that he was buying his love and affection, it was going to be his olive branch. His peace offering and truce to give his brother his gun back, and with the means necessary to aid in their cover story.

The whole way home, they sat in almost total silence, he did not turn on the radio or play any CD’s. When they arrived home he automatically set about putting things away into their place. Groceries put away, fruit and vegetables stored, wine placed in the pantry. He kept busy to keep from adding to the tremulous rocky waters of their situation. For lunch he decided to make Tapas, which was a wide variety of appetizers in Spanish cuisine. With everything laid out on pristine black and white serving platters, he arranged many different types of fancy snack foods. Some even things that he knew that Nigel might enjoy. Crisp Italian fried calamari, some samples of the cheese he got from the wine shop. He had the thin sliced Kobe beef with dipping sauces. Fancy white anchovies in vinegar. He had different types of Tapas from all over the world, and tried to even incorporate some things Romanian. There was chorizo sausage slow cooked in wine, and little baked cups made from cheese filled with shrimp ceviche. The Romanian appetizer that he had made was Sarmale, and it was all for Nigel, as he really didn’t have plans to eat that himself. The whole time he was cooking he didn’t allow Nigel into the kitchen, saying that it was important that he have free range of his utilities. When it was time to eat he made his brother sit at the table while he brought everything out on the shiny black and white trays, and displayed them in front of his twin, very proud of the work that was put into the meal. “I hope that this be the first meal of new beginnings, and please enjoy.” He made a toast to Nigel, with a fresh opened bottle of batard-montrachet, and feeling good about the prospects of the future. Tomorrow morning he would leave Nigel’s gun, his new gifts, and a note on the table, before he left for work, then all would be well on it’s way to mending itself. 

___

The phantasm of the images of the man, continues to oscillate like the blinding sun of the midday. As unforgiving and brimmed curiosity and skepticism heightens the onslaught of beam penetrating through his fixed gaze, he immediately shields his hand over and shuts his eyelids the moment he stomps out of the store. It was as good as him having been encased in the habitual darkness with unchecked emotions seeping out of the pores of the walls as he motored out in avoidance. Fuming like a brazen bull turning into shrieks with agonizing over his rather passive dealing of the man, the aforementioned individual is nowhere to be seen with his observing gaze. His feet had been planted as if stepping into a setting quick cement, as both the enigmatic gaze and unreadable motive had brought a sense of unsettlement. The occasion and the space he had occupied with the very man didn’t matter if he wanted to confront him, but the only abeyance had been the man’s retreat, as if he had been sizing him up within what it seemed a span of endless heartbeats. His subconscious still remained in a cornucopia of conundrums, which continues to drive him on the edge and restless. He wasn’t just going to spill his guts and let his twin know about what had been going on in the other side of the spectrum. His brother had been too caught up in being the mother hen, while his rising effervescence continued to bubble away like an agitated can of soda, fizzing up without ever halting. Until his own vessel, full of gangrene-filled vessels burst open to turn him into a creature of untamed physical valor and resilience, turning inside out with unleashed whirlpool of thick crimson. All in all, he doesn’t like to be affected by the sensation of hanging by a thread and he wants to be the driver in the seat, not the one on the other side waiting something to happen. His hem and haw continues until the click of the automatic key unlocks the door to the Bentley. 

Feeling like he had been spellbound to unwittingly walk through a series of door with its governing emotion a different variants of anger and rage, he tries his best of ability to re-retract the backsteps he had been taking in mending their relationship. His ways already set in stone, it would be extremely difficult to carve his way and trying to come to the middle ground, or to pluck away the outstanding emotion that served as his ongoing vigor -  the protuberant, bloodlust eyes suggestive of a recipe for disaster. Coming to a consensus that the idea of finding a simple solution to this particular sticky situation is just wishful thinking, he tries to get his act together as he stores away the paper bags and perches deep into the seat, which still retains the mold of his version of self. Every surface exuded a sense of his lingering emotions and that would be another percolation he would delve into - it told just how he had ravaged through his own emotions, a continual waging of war and making peace in between. If he could just come to an accord and let that abundance of energy unleash in more productive way, retaining and expanding that power to see the aftereffect, instead of letting it remain a figment of his own imagination. The whole ride is a battle for control of his sanity, trying to unfurl his mind from becoming too obsessed with the hostile encounter. He didn’t want the twin’s sonorous baritone to go out the other ear, so he manages to blurt out a brief admission. “Well, it hasn’t been a fucking optimum venture between you and me but let’s consider it adequate for the fruitful result.” 

He doesn’t need a bravado or self-glorification to fend off the vexation and the last thing he wants to do is sabotage the fruitful cream of the crop to be nullified. The bountiful harvest of ripe berries had been already devastated upon the tempestuous breakup and its rotting gunk afterwards that surely both of them shared - all those nineteen years of it. Facing the sense of loss, aimless roaming, settling after being a vagabond in a strange city that defined itself as a lost cause. In the midst of flowing throngs and nameless faces going astray, escaping his cognizance like a puff of white exhalation. Finally parting in farewell with the abyss of loneliness and in conclusion, failing to mend their set in stone ways of going about their affairs had tired him more than he wishes to admit. After giving Hannibal a helping hand to store away all the produce and other items, he retreats to his own sanctuary, having none of the thoughts to impede on his twin’s. With his perched up bike, the warm bitterness of nicotine is enough to turn the internal brooding to fully blossom into a celebratory mode. The feast does what spring does to cherry blossom in a heartbeat. Still maintaining his contemplative facade, he lets a faint radiant grin paint over as the howling ablaze inside of him gradually extinguishes. Giving a sweeping scan of the sumptuous array presented upon him, his gleaming gaze shoots back to Hannibal, as he retrieves his Johnnie Walker Black just in time for the other’s toast. “ _ Noastre noi începuturi. Mūsų naujų pradžių _ .”  _ To our new beginnings. _ He repeats in both Romanian and Lithuanian as he swallows, salivating like a dog having to kneel before the time comes. He only makes a beeline for sarmale, fried calamari, chorizo sausages and thinly sliced kobe beef, which literally melts on his tongue even before he has time to savor its complicated rich flavor. Hannibal had a rather predictable way of coming to a truce between their lingering battle of forgiveness and grudges and its ugly baggage and although he can’t exactly pinpoint what it is the means of putting a giant patch on it, he relishes and remembers this particular feeling. Perhaps then, he could even let the stabbing slide. “This is as fucking authentic as it gets.” Hannibal had even cured the cabbages and had replaced pork with beef, which he had been craving all this time. A chuckle rattles in his chest, drumming as he gives an appreciative nod, as good as a ‘thank you.’      


	31. Chapter 31

He is all too pleased to hear his brother speaking their native tongue in a toast. The meal had gone much better than he had hope for, and was now in a pleasantly fine mood. He drank this time a little too much wine, the first time in a very long while. He let Nigel eat as much as he wanted, but stopped himself well before he was full. If they were to go train some in the basement he didn’t want to over eat, he didn’t normally allow himself to over indulge in that way. On the last glass of wine, upon finishing the bottle himself, he cheerfully added in Lithuanian. “Norėdami gero vyno , gero maisto, ir gera kompanija .” Soberly looking at Nigel, in English he curtailed his toast with. “- and you always have a place at my table, my dear.” After the tapas were finished, and his twin couldn’t eat anymore, he had his brother help him clear away the dishes, straightening up the dining room. He then asked if Nigel would like to dry the dishes while he washed, he didn’t have to put them away, everything would be neatly placed on dish drying mats, for him to sort through later. They were just finishing up their task in comfortable silence, when he declared suddenly. “En garde, mon cœur .” He turned to the side pivoting and as if in slow motion, threw the dish towel in the air, a beautiful fluttering distraction. Then went for the knife block, on the island in the middle of the kitchen.

With hair falling uncharacteristically into his eyes, he held the blade just at Nigel’s throat, with a placid smile on his face. “You are dead, Nigel.” He announced as if he really had plunged the blade into his twin’s neck. He was making a point, and ignoring the look his brother gave him.. He then relaxed, and playfully flipped the blade in mid-air catching the handle effortlessly. Tut-tutting under his breath he chided his younger brother almost as if his twin were a child. “Even if you think I will not harm you, you must never let your guard down.” Always moving he never seems to sit or stand still for long, he folded the dish towel carefully in both hands, after he handed the knife, handle first to Nigel. “Today, I will teach you properly, how to wield a blade, and the most efficient place to pierce the body, for the maximum effect.” With a cheeky little smirk, and tiny nose crinkle, he added for emphasis. “We don’t want you stabbing blindly in the dark, you’ll spoil the meat.” His brother would be the first male that he ever tried to take under his wing and teach anything at all to. He found he most enjoyed the company of women, Nigel was an exception to this preference. After all the dishes were done, and he was satisfied with the way things looked, he headed upstairs to change his clothes. “I’m going to change my outfit, you may meet me in the basement if you wish.”

After adorning himself in clothes that he didn’t care if they got soiled, he glided down the stairs with a spring in his step. It was exciting to get to teach someone he deemed a worthy opponent; how to fight. He had his hair slicked back with gel to keep it in place, instead of combed neatly to the side. He wore a dark grey shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, and casual slacks that wouldn’t show dirt much, if he got dirty. He also carried with him his medical bag, so that he would be able to change Nigel’s bandage and just in case they got a little too rough he could check to make sure the wound in his brother’s shoulder didn’t reopen. Down in the basement, he had things set up for their lesson. He even had a little surprise for his brother, but that wouldn’t be for the very end. Standing with a hand in his pocket he beckoned Nigel over to a table he had laid out displaying different types of blades, and cutting implements. There was an ominous looking side of beef… hanging from the ceiling in the middle beyond the plastic curtains. “I’ll demonstrate the different types of puncture wounds, and then you’ll be able to identify them easily.” These were all the things in the world that he enjoyed, and getting to share that with Nigel, now, was his idea of fun. Handing a very sharp, and deadly looking letter opener to his twin, he asked with a raised eyebrow. “Would you like to take the first stab at it?” 

___

His mood lifted tenfold than how it had been before, the tempestuous stirring of his mood and the subversive fuse always going off like fire crackers inside his brain finally subdues along with the lightened mood. The hedonistic spread serves as both a feast upon the eyes, as well as to offer the possibilities of their shared appetite as his attention successfully diverts towards masticating the food to succumb to the most primitive of human instincts. He always have had a voraciousness to everything he did, the desire for knowledge, however not all scholastic and academic. Although not a fan of reading to obtain such, he did anything he could get his hands on and was always willing to experience something new. Knowing that they would get their usual workout, he refrains from falling into a crapulous state and sticks to a few bottles of beer, Hannibal’s own brew already sitting in the fridge, chilled to the core. With his characteristic furnace exuding maelstrom, the ubiquitous state that had been pre-installed to his persona having fallen into desuetude, everything else clicks to the right place. Whether their relationship was unconventional, to mildly put, or strung up in such a tension it seemed their would be no rehabilitation, everything would eventually come out in the wash and all the ups and downs would give these succession of events a new least on life. It had been always an adventure, the most unpredictable one at that. One day, everything would be blinding bright like spreading rays of sunshine, revealing every unexplored layers within his twin’s most reserved essential nature and the next, what he perceived of his brother would reduce to unrecognizable labyrinth under the dark mountain of clouds, his inside burning with unanswered questions that would keep him guessing. No matter how they differed and stood on the opposite side of the coin, the one thing was clear - it doesn’t take some getting used to, as they have been forged in the same womb and nothing was lackadaisical when it came to occasions such as this. Amiably wiping and clearing away the dishes, the ornate gold-trimmed porcelain almost slips away from his grip and his entire statue remains fixated, an electric charge slithering around his spine upward. 

With the tip of his tongue pressed against the top of his mouth, he swallows and feels the edge of the blade graze along with the bobbing adam’s apple. His unreadable gaze remaining pendulous between being stupendous and completely jacked up with the gleaming orb growing with his typical fierce piercing gaze. All the lax muscles before constricts steadily, the redness spreading like an epidemic along the curve of his neck and jutting cheekbones, accentuated further by the cords, which had stood long before and his veined hands imperceptibly trembling with ignited irascibility. “You have such a fucking stellar talent for ruining the goddamn mood. There’s no such fucking thing for you to not get the ball rolling and let my rambunctious spirit to  _ rest in peace _ .” Intended as a pun, he grumbles out as he shoots an askance gaze at little juggle, the sharp flash of the point drawing a continuing arch under the high sun of the afternoon. Once the handle is within his steady grip, the thought of paying his brother back with his own coin briefly crosses his mind, but he decides against it and watches his own reflection slide across the flawless surface, something he was familiar with as he watched it blur interminably during one of his night rides on his bike. Bright ruby of his face, stained with shiny red poetry as his semblance bled onto the streamlined surface. “More than all the others, you’d know I would never let anyone to bump elbow to elbow, my benevolence simply doesn’t extend  _ in perpetuity _ .” He maneuvers the blade around as if he would his gun, scrutinizing the surface and feels for the smooth contour of the stainless steel, no seams, like being a quintessential object of a monomania for elegant brutality. 

“You and I will always have a difference of opinion there, no matter how fucking mess it creates for a cleanup, I always had preferred the warm shower of crimson to wash over me, it’s more potent, raw and immediate, like a preserved snapshot of a memory,” he boomerangs, and elaborates further. “Every fucking movement turns my hands with glitter and that’s more valuable and brings an immediate gratification than a piece of well-cut diamond.” A faint trace of sweat catches the end of his bandage and curves around his collarbone, then seeps into the fabric of his button-down. Leaving the knife perched atop the cutting board, he rolls his own sleeves up, finding no reason to make an extra trip to change into more suitable clothes, since he had enough room for easy, flexible movements. With a back roll of his shoulders as he makes a descent down to the basement with unbridled verve, he awaits for his brother, with his hand smoothing around the sharp jaw and feeling a bit of a gentle throb alongside the stitched suture. With a spreading curve of his lips, looking at an ardent collection of ranging blades, some looking more unforgiving and menacing than others, his eyes brood over the particular set of intricately engraved pocket knives, some looking more like a traditional razor blades. Immediately placed in his milieu, he already knew by the instinct (and Hannibal’s intrinsic nature) that the slab of meat hanging in front of him wasn’t beef. “Now I’m wondering what kind of fucking unspeakable atrocity this individual had committed,” flashing a quick smirk lifting his cheekbones, he carries his weight and half-turns around with the pointed side down, driving it just under where the ribcage would be. The suspended steel hook swings vigorously as he retracts, the perforated sight imprints with his own impression of knuckles. “I was hoping the head and limbs were still attached. What a shame I couldn’t bash the fucker’s head in.” 


	32. Chapter 32

He spent the better of part of an hour showing his brother pressure points, and where all the main arteries were on the human body. He demonstrated many different places you could puncture the flesh, and miss vital organs, and where not kill a victim. He did his best to explain that there was no need for excessive force, or heavy handedness. “Using a sufficiently sharp object, pressed just so-” he explained in layman terms, and showed him with a very delicate blade, on their make-shift dummy. “That on the epidermis of your opponent, it only requires less than 16 ounces of force of break skin, with a proper implement.” There was a slight amusement to teaching his brother how to be less forceful, and it was no easy thing to learn. “I imagine that you are quite used to being a bull in a china shop, but that is no longer necessary.” He was busy wiping his hands on a clean handkerchief, and watching Nigel out of the corner of his eye. It was not something his twin would learn overnight, but if he kept at it, he could teach his brother what he needed to know, over the course of a few years. It was a strange thought that they might now be together again for any amount of time longer than two years. While he did like to make many plans far, far in advance, often planning things out like a chess master, he could not hope to make too many plans around Nigel. His twin was an unpredictable element, and he could never hope to know what his brother would do. The other was as big of a mystery to him as the word of God was to the whole world.

He was standing just a little too close to Nigel just now, the basement was climate controlled, and even if they worked up a sweat, it would cool instantly on their skin. He could smell every scent that lingered on his twin’s skin, and it hung in the air like cologne. Scent was the oldest memory receptor, and often just being next to his brother brought back many memories. Not always pleasant ones either, but it was nice to be reminded once in awhile that you were still human. He could see the shining of the blade he held in his palm, in the dim artificial light. He swallowed loud and audibly, his throat clicking and wetting his lips in an awkward way that was uncharacteristic to himself. There were urges that Nigel brought out in him, that he had forgotten that were there. He worked so hard to keep control of his whole person. How strange it was that just being near his twin made him lose that strong grasp on his being. There was a heart pounding, mind racing, animalistic side that he worked extremely hard to keep under wraps. All that he worked for, was threatened, and could be jeopardized by one single whiff of the wild side that his brother embodied. His brother was the only person who ever saw all of him, his twin knew him at his lowest, and saw him break down. It only made sense now that his brother saw him at his best, and see how strong he was, he was powerful, and together they were unstoppable. Standing close as he was, thinking about the past, the present and the future, he leaned a little closer to Nigel and breathed in deep, taking his unique scent in, and touching his index finger to the back of his brother’s hand.

Raising his eyes slowly to meet the man standing directly across from him, he was no stranger, and they looked so alike, yet they were as different as the sun and the moon. “Despite what you may think, I want what is best for you Nigel.” He paused closed his eyes for a moment, and opened them staring intensely at his doppelganger. ” I would like for us to work together…To be together again.” He had never let another soul into his domain, or his little world. That is, not until now, and there was a strange sense of release. He wanted to be a family again. He didn’t realize until Nigel showed up on his doorstep, just how much he missed having someone to be close with. It meant the world to him, what he had with his brother, and there was no length he wouldn’t go to, to keep his twin close. Nothing short of death would tear them apart this time around. “I will not abandon you a second time, I don’t want to be without my family any farther.” The light caress on the back of Nigel’s hand turned into a vice like grip, that encircled the other’s wrist, and pulled. He enveloped his brother into a tight embrace, he had one hand on the back of his twin’s head, and the other slid up from his wrist, releasing him, and upwards to cup a hand on the other’s cheek. Looking deep into Nigel’s eyes from that close, he could feel the rhythm of his twin’s heartbeat, enough that he could almost taste it on the tip of his tongue, and he knew right then and there that he wanted this forever, with his brother at his side. The two of them a force to be reckoned with. It was in that heart beat too, that he knew he would die for it, necessary, and that was something that had never happened to him before, and the idea had him incredibly turned on.          

___

When he wasn’t killing those who owed him favor, the ones only would be redeemed with their wretched lives with his signature executioner’s style with a single bullet between their eyes, his idea of violence always involving sheer brute force. Not only the forceful jabs and crude punches left his indentations, his exerted strength shot out like a streak of lightening. Too fast, too flashily dramatic and detrimental to one’s fatality and nothing short of leaving a mess full of splatters of blood, peeping entrails through broken ribs and concave skulls. He didn’t kill for sheer pleasure, but those moments when the violence had a propensity to take over his blood as his presumable host’s sanity was jeopardized. His knowledge upon the human anatomy solely came from his extensive experience from butting his heads with myriads of people, instead of what Hannibal was instructing him to do now. He precisely knew the points where it would bring an instantaneous death. As his knuckles began to tighten as he twists, his only method of ‘fighting’ extended to this; his style was never shrouded in enigmatic aura as he would almost always go for the head. If the opponent had been bigger than him, a sweep of his leg. Old habits died hard and even to him, he wasn’t up to snuff as every extension of his taut muscles and limbs were too tense, the underlying anger coursing through his blood still getting hold of himself as he continues chomping at the bit with his less than elegant motion. With his forehead tightly pinched, he grunts unceremoniously and his gaze remains pendulous between the swaying lump of meat and the uncharacteristic weapon he holds in a firm grip. “Definitely fucking easier said than done,”  he takes a breather as he feels the tense muscles roll back, a sheen of sweat loops around his neck as the collar of his shirt plasters onto the curve of his neck. A generated rush of heat weighs heavily upon the dimple of his spine as he looks at the perforated marks, some more precise than the others, most of them looking more uneven and jagged. 

“I’m more used to butting the fucking assholes’ heads and flinging high kicks across their unworthy faces. Never in my mind had ever crossed using this fucking flimsy blade you call scalpel and fluid - “ He wants to add it had been remotely (and unnecessarily)  _ graceful  _ and somewhat  _ feminine  _ if everyone asked. The bull couldn’t simply forget his physique and start metamorphosing into a gazelle, or better, untamed beast with unruliness etched through his persona magically transforming into a refined gentleman. Even more so as he still continues to fight with that frightful searing scorching feeling spreading down his chest, he jabs as fast as a streak of lightning and watches the epidermis break, with clean, smooth edge all round. All The filmy layer of sweat already parched up, his skin tingles with slight goosebumps as if thin sheet of ice had melted upon the expanse of his skin. “ _ Motion _ , well, I suppose I could pour on the coil.” He concludes, deciding to omit the details that remained even quizzical to him as it had been ironic to see his brother not put himself into strenuous or vigorous action as what presented in front of him told otherwise. His muscles still felt atrophied, or rather, invisible strands of fibers weaved into the pores of his skin, governing his movement. Frustration flares as he maintains in the middle; all he wants to do is to chop away at the meat, yet he’s refraining from letting it all loose. He contemplates upon Hannibal’s act as he watches his reflection briefly paint onto the gleaming blade, along with Hannibal’s equally serious face opposite him as the blade makes a half-arch in the air with a whooshing air only separating them. Hannibal’s proximity is enough to plant the fact that perhaps his doppelganger had been showing him, inviting him in to the most clandestine areas of the psyche he hadn’t yet have an access to. 

Hannibal’s touch lingers on the protruded vein as his fingers curl inward, his dominant hand still plucking out the half-buried blade with a faint hint of crimson. “And despite the fact that I’ve fucking been there, done that, all those pandemonium forebode as a matter of course, I can relish in this bonding,” he pauses, the bit of ice he had within the center of his orbs (from the strange man at the grocery store) completely melted away and turning embers. Oozing emotions draw them together like a magnetized ends of the metal. He never had doubted that their tumultuous relationship (through good and bad) would eventually help them to succeed, bond them with an unbreakable link. It wasn’t simply a wishful thinking without efforts on both ends - Hannibal had already sent an invitation, he tore it off, almost burned it to a crisp, yet here he was, partaking what it seems to be a shot in the arm. Much more invigorating than any drug which could be coursing through his stream at any given moment if he hadn’t decided to make his sudden appearance. He didn’t want to admit it - Hannibal might have already read his genuine intention(s), the prominent reason why he decided to break into his brother’s house, from an opposite side of the world with his carefully constructed scheme, but not yet. Not verbally just yet. If Hannibal was ever a good psychiatrist, he’d know by the stream of unadulterated emotion seeping out faster than hemorrhaged patient meeting a gruesome death. “Why the fuck do you think I sought you out after all those fucking years?” Their distance seems to close by leaps and bounds, not only physical ones. As their bodies adhere together without a space even mouse can crawl out, his own hand drops the blade altogether and immediately goes for Hannibal’s impeccably drawn back hair and the sensitive skin under the jaw. Pulling his twin further, he clashes and molds his lips against his counterpart, a sense of urgency rampant as he jacks up. He could just do him there and then, but then, it was Hannibal’s call.  


	33. Chapter 33

Standing face to face with the one person who knew him best, and having their bodies mold together like Velcro is a thrilling sensation. Everything he has ever wanted is right here in front of him. He only had to try his best not muck things up again. Nigel was like a finicky horse that would liable to run away from the bridle and bit than to submit to something new. He had to wear kid gloves around his brother, for fear that something would make him bolt and run. That was a very deeply ingrained habit, he had grown so accustomed to. Always keeping people at arm’s length and never revealing his true self. It was much easier with Nigel, he had not run away, and he certainly had not been forced to kill his twin. In a way stabbing his brother had been like a little test. Nigel had passed with flying colors, and now, he felt like he was able just a small bit, to lower his guard enough to let someone else in. Their kiss is forceful and urgent from his twins end of things, he himself was trying not to act out in haste, proceeding gracefully, as with all things. He is gentle and tender, he holds his twin’s face in his hand with only three fingers touching. It’s a light reassuring touch that grounds him in the moment. While his brother’s lips are a little sun-tanned and course, they are warm, inviting and hungry for more. Outwardly he would never show his surprise, but he can’t help the way this kiss steals his breath. They had the other day shared the briefest of embraces and lip lock in the shower. It was nothing like the way they share space and breath, now, his whole body tremble with anticipation, and excitement, and the way Nigel was pressed up against his front.     

He had to slow Nigel down, his hand had moved involuntarily to the back of his brother’s head, hand clutching in the long strands of hair at the nape of his twin’s neck. Using it like reigns he tugged ever so gently to pull them apart. His brother had been so into their kiss, he had been sticking his tongue halfway down his throat in an evil greedy sort of way. He couldn’t help but nip at his twin’s tongue as it pulled away, leaving a faint trail of saliva on his outer lip. With a twinkle of mirth, the second their lips parted, he couldn’t help the words slip from his mouth. “You act so starved, my dear. If you a hungry you need only ask, and I will cook for you.” Even breathless and aroused he couldn’t help being a smart ass when it came to his brother, it was what they did best. He was shocked at how easy it was to joke around Nigel. His brother, looking rather wolfish with a devil may care attitude, bit him on the hand, hard enough to leave teeth marks, it was as if his brother was telling him not to tempt fate. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.” He told his twin, voice hoarse, while looking down at the bite mark with a slight hint of pride in his tone. Then barely audible above a whisper he added, “Least you get bit in return…” All the talk of food, and teeth, and biting it was very primal. It also greatly enhanced the mood factor for him. It was a blood-pounding, animalistic, adrenaline sort of arousal, that they had between them. It went against everything that he stood for, but Nigel was an unstoppable force. They always came clashing together, and their was always a great carnal beauty to their way of things.

Nigel silenced him with more kisses, and more biting. He couldn’t help, but to close his eyes at the flood of pleasure. He wanted nothing more than to give in to his twin, and to let Nigel have his way with him, but he still was having control issues. Still holding on to his outward imagine, and keeping everything under heavy lock and key. All of his needs, his emotions and feelings towards Nigel. It was all neatly bottled up and kept sealed tight under pressure. Soon if something didn’t happen between them, it would explode or backfire in his face. He wanted to take his time and to savor everything that transpires between them. It was his chance to start fresh and new. They could rekindle their relationship, but to do so he had to let go of his need to control every tiny little thing. Nigel was a free spirit and was not someone that he could use mind tricks on, he could and thought about it, but it wouldn’t be the right away to start their fragile relationship. His twin would never forgive him, if he had used some therapy method on him without his permission. He knew this, because of how he reacted when he drugged his brother the first night he arrived. To do so again, would only spell disaster. Barely able to let more than two other trains of thought wander at a time, Nigel was proving to be a master of distraction, and seduction. His younger brother had quickly found one of his weaknesses and was using it thoroughly against him. Buttons went flying in every which direction, as his shirt was peeled open. The cloth hung loose at his sides, revealing the long bare expanse of his chest, with a thick mat of hair in the middle. He was so incredibly hard now that his erection was straining against the fabric of his slacks, which kept it thoroughly confined. Nigel was busy leaving bite marks along his chest like a trail of breadcrumbs, some hard enough to bruise, and others had broken the skin just enough to have blood welling up. He realized that his twin had pushed him up against the table full of dangerous weapons, the gleam of many blades glittered at the corner of his eyes. 

___

It’s as if his safety valve had been unscrewed open and all that brewing sense of power had been spurring inside of him. As the electric, urgent kiss continues, a kind of electricity seems to gather inside as the rush of it quivers all through the length of his spine and the warmth radiating from his body becomes even more  _ tangible _ . He doesn’t have to be one of those people whose truth has been at last beginning to dawn on them when the subject of Hannibal comes afloat; he knew his brother’s distant nature, fearing his nimble mind to latch upon many people as a great gush of energy would release and catch upon those who sought comfort and solace. Having partaken and peeping through the curtain, he knew that Hannibal coveted for that one person he would like to confide in for the rest of his life and so did he. The desire swirled thicker and thicker as his lungs correspond to deflate in rapid pace - he could only be addicted to this sensation and it wasn’t like those instances when he had relinquished his control solely for ephemeral gratification of carnal desires. It was culmination of all those enigmatic things turning what it used to be gushing molten lava of gleaming fury, metamorphosed to repeat what they used to have before nineteen years ago. _ Entangled sheets and limbs _ , his Parisian flat coming to life with the light streaming through, which seemed to make every passing day newer and brighter. The warmth and purring heartbeat resembling his own steady and strong ones and within that blaze of silence as they basked in the daybreak, a seraphic calm washed over as a languid exchange of gaze and whiff through his nostrils would confirm the fornication the night before. Through the morning breath, he could still feel the viscous fluid steep through his throat as he still wasn’t completely out of the honey-heavy dew of slumber.   

His urgency has manifested upon the morning sun of that particular dawn, through branches, dispelling the dew, the eyes which reflect the world on the grass and defeats stars envisioned as gallant army. With the world drawn away behind gently closed eyelids, with a curling slurping motion that draws more of Hannibal’s lingering taste, undefeated and unstoppable, his onslaught continues just until Hannibal pulls him away. Through the ash blond veil, his eyes flash and glaze and takes on the air of a seasoned warrior, who had gone through hell and back and marching forward and never looking back had became commonplace. “You know… there’s no fucking way even in hell the talk of food will make this to be dead in the water.” Like a drowning man desperate for anything to grasp hold onto and taking in heap of inhale only to be assaulted with more stinging deluge of saltwater and sun-ray, turning into blinding, unforgiving shards, he lets avaricious thirst turn into thundercloud, boding as the last bit of light beneath the rim of the sky completely disappears behind the inky denseness of blackish-blue. His gaze manifests to a predator about to silence its prey - a respectable one - with both hunger and adoration spreading onto his face as his pupils adjust to the darkened ambiance as the sun tilts. His fingers splayed over Hannibal’s biceps and turning into zip-ties around the muscles and bones, he pivots his hips once and presses his own hardening erection against Hannibal’s. Surely, all those bloodthirsty talk of them getting physical reminds him of the previous day’s training, them batting paws and his own heart rumbling beneath the mischief of all.   

He immediately beelines for the saliva clinging onto Hannibal’s lip as he resumes the frenzied acts, his lips flying like fireworks as he turns into an embodiment of a beneficial and benevolent fire - egging on their shared arousal and sucking those cruel lips until they swelled up. Letting the sharp intake of air act as a catalyst for more vigor, as his fingers crawl up to clutch around Hannibal’s full head of hair along with a bit of sweat seeping through his fingertips, the overwhelming scent of bodement and harbinger of death and consumption replaces with the onward efflux of impassioned thrill. Exploring the twin’s body as if he hadn’t before, his trailing marks and bites leave an array of contrasting marks, carved out of teeth and fluids. His own blood seems to churn and erupt within those angrily protruding vessels as his vagrant path transforms to etch through the creases of his brain. Letting their frenetic heartbeat become a sonorous and hearty aria, soon, the fabric of Hannibal’s shirt clumps within his curled up fingers and let loose. Those scattered buttons become another instrument and incitement to serve as a stimulant. His jeans weigh heavily upon his limbs, clinging onto his muscles like sand bags as their adhered bodies plaster around the edge of cool silver metal, the temperature difference never enough to extinguish the evergrowing tempest that seem to reside within his heart at all times. His lips might lie, like he would when he carries on with his scheme to surprise his twin later on and eyes could, too. Although his own oozed unfiltered emotions nevertheless how much effort he exerted. His hands remained the most honest part of his body as a thin gleaming silver draws upon his fingertips as if it had been magnetized. His movement remaining nimble, the slim blade serves to fulfill his needs flawlessly - to rid of Hannibal’s slacks as it would give him a helping hand to tear those right off. Also, to draw an imperceptible line, tinged with hint of blood, pooling around the separated skin as the burning line soothes with emollient of his tongue. Immediately pinning Hannibal down with a splayed hand upon the thatch of chest hair, his thumb grazes over the welled blood, waiting to be exuded outward. “I’d prefer if you’d make yourself fucking comfortable,” he takes another definite step towards the sleek edge of the table and looks at his twin with a downward gaze as if he had a cornered prey. “then perhaps I’d be reciprocated as well.”      


	34. Chapter 34

The prospect of danger paired with tantalizing sexual acts always had been a huge turn on for him. It followed in the same vein that he always found the idea of death comforting. The thought that his life could end at any moment frees him to fully appreciate the beauty and art and horror of everything this world had to offer. He wasn’t above trying anything new at least once, and he had a thrill seeker’s heart, even if on the outside his appearance didn’t reflect so. Staring down Nigel, was like a match between a Bull and a Matador. Both equal in how deadly they were, in their own right. More so than ever, he realized that they were like man and beast forever locked in a battle of wits. They took turns being the monster, and they both had the capacity for great destruction. As the blade his brother held flashed, he could feel the fabric of his slacks give, tearing from the strain. He knew now that his twin meant to divest him of his clothing little by little. A slow process of cutting the clothes away until he was left with rags. His shirt was now hanging limp at his sides useless, after having been ripped open prior to the agonizingly slow knife play. After Nigel had backed him into the table like a beast cornered he had heeded the suggestion of getting comfortable. So at the request, he took a seat on the sturdy table once its contents had but knock all ahoo to the ground. Calmly and patiently he watched his brother’s every move, and cut, and rip that was made in the clothing, and not once did he flinch when his skin was nicked haphazardly in the process.

“I find empty threats to be dull, if you are going to cut me, I’d rather you do it, and not leave me waiting with anticipation.” He couldn’t not help poking the bear so to speak. Being snarky was a habit, and he wasn’t scared of what might happen at his brother’s wrath. One thing he was not prepared for was the force of the blow that struck him square on the jaw. Instantly he could feel blood trickle down the corner of his mouth, and he licked it away thoughtfully. “I suppose I deserve that after all the mess I put you through, but are you prepared to tempt fate?” He asked Nigel much like a priest would ask a follower, if they were prepared to accept Jesus into their heart. Without waiting he pulled the loose and tattered shirt off his shoulders and folded it neatly onto the table. Next he ripped away the remains of his shredded pants, and was left in shoes and boxers. Carefully he untied his shoes and slipped off his socks and set them next to his shirt, and his shoes he left just under the table. His chest was a treasure map of bruises and bite marks, with a few scattered lesions on his upper thighs. Leaning casually against the table, he had his hands folded neatly in front of himself, with a little smile at the corn of his lips. “I suppose you always did enjoy me in a state of undress. You had always been quite a nudist yourself.” Hooking the heel of his foot behind Nigel’s kneecap, he pulled his brother close enough that his twin was standing between his legs, looming over and staring down at him. “I can’t blame you, my dear. You have a remarkable body, I sadly enjoy clothing to much to display myself so.”

All the while he was talking, he was trailing fingertips up the length of Nigel’s body, feeling the strength and muscle trapped under his brother’s outfit. Hooking two fingers into the belt loops of the other’s pants, he jerked his twin as close as he could get. Gazing intently up into his twin’s face, he kneaded his thumbs into the flesh of the other’s lower abdomen. He could feel in such close proximity the heat radiating from his brother’s groin, and didn’t have to look to see the unmistakable strain of erection. Carefully, he unbuttoned his twin’s shirt, pausing to undo each. Once the plains of Nigel’s stomach was revealed he placed a kiss close to his bellybutton. Without skipping a beat, he worked the fastening of his brother’s pants loose, and undid the zipper, only to be greeted by the swollen engorged head of a cock. He had been expecting boxers or briefs of some sort, but was pleasantly surprised instead, by Nigel’s commando habits. There was a moment where time frozen and he just stared appreciatively at his twin’s uncut erection, his breath caught in his throat, where he couldn’t speak, and he didn’t want to breath. He could smell the musky odor of Nigel, the unique scent only his twin carried. It was what opened the floodgates to all the things they used to do in the flat in Paris, and all of the time spent exploring each other’s bodies. Suddenly he let out a monstrous snarl, and launched himself at his brother. Latching onto his twin like a crocodile rolling its prey in water, he rode the other down to the floor with a great ‘THWUMP!’  In a feral sort of manner, he rutted and grinded himself against Nigel’s freed cock. The feel of fabric swathed hardness and silky smooth skin sliding against each other was enough to make him shudder. Helplessly he clutched at his twin’s longer hair, and buried his face in the crook of Nigel’s neck. He breathed in his scent deeply while he continued to rub himself against his brother. Whispering in the other’s ear, he mumbled. “I’ve missed you.”

___

As his lascivious gaze, dripping with both a threatening prospect of rough ruggedness and dulcet, molasses-like limerence explores every surface his fingers and teeth had etched and nipped through, a realization, more like a revelation he had disregarded thus far overwhelms his brain. Of course he knew of his twin’s opposite side and it just had struck him as if a sledgehammer had instilled the striking fact he had ignored so far. Perhaps he was so enraptured in his own goddamn unchecked maelstrom to realize it yet until now. He registered it well, now that the voluptuary and self-indulgent way of life they lived in their own way seem to click together like those middle pieces that didn’t seem to match with the others. With him, once everything clicks into a place, there was no stopping. Like a freight train with a broken engine on a downhill slope, the momentum he gains from it would be unstoppable - taking in both magnificent view of splotches of tinged red, scraped and pressed with every abrading wear and chafe along with almost unnoticeable spike of Hannibal’s heartbeat. Like a growing pitter-patter of the sprinkle, it would be more steady and slow. Whereas his own would be much more akin to liquid sunshine, a drencher that would be merciless when it comes to the intensity. The blaze of streaming illumination coexisted upon, making it fleeting and that much intense. Aggravated even more so with the bit of the workout and Hannibal’s challenging snarkiness, what seemed like the pleasant surge of electricity gathering inside of him and discharging throughout each strand of muscle metamorphoses into an upheaval - a violent charge as each ends become fragmented like shattered shards of glass pushed against the inside of his skin. The hotness immediately coming into the eyeballs as if Hannibal’s words had gone off like fireworks, too close against his eardrums. Feeling that trail of ember bulging his eyeballs out, his eyelids merely become slits, like heated blade slicing through his twin’s face in discs.

Damn those fucking mouth. Like his own, Hannibal’s had capability to both fling out crude whips, or better, acting like a pair of hypodermic fang that would leave corroding venom within his bloodstream without the acute pain which follows. As well as a caress of the warmth, a copious blanket of encouragement and compliments. Just like the fucking old times. His tongue had served as whips and carrots when he had struggled with the balance of his academic and pleasure-seeking hedonism. Not giving away the next set course of action as his jaw sets, only a quirk of his upturned lips convey the brewing fury as his tightly curled fist connects level with Hannibal’s jaw. Hannibal always had a peculiar way of letting him egged on, whether the course of action was disconcerting or stimulating with positive outcome. He could still feel the friction and make out the indentation of the ridges against the sun-kissed, full of stubble under five o’clock shadow. Even with more tricks in Hannibal’s sleeve, he had been utmost positive that without any weapons, he would triumph. His face had been a pillar of myriads of scrapes and gashes, as brawls and commotions were so imperative that it seemed trivialized to him by then. Letting his piercing gaze hover around the tightened ridge of the knuckles with a faint smear of his twin’s blood still permeated through his heated skin, he takes a deep whiff against the streak and the amalgamation of blending arousal. His own spiraling upward in a series of vortex, literally pinning him in the moment and place. He still remembers how he released copious strings of pearls, seeing stars and iridescent colors scattering as everything reduced into a tremulous transfiguration.    

“A fucking nudist or not, I simply enjoy my kind of clothes because I look so damn fucking hot, with or without.” His arousal transforming into a fizzing bubbles, his tastebuds savor the lingering iron-rich blood from his skin. Then, his fingertip traces upon the other’s busted lips with half-lidded orbs. Already fully aware of the heavy musk traversing and cutting through all the previous worked up heat and lingering notes of sweat, the capitulating flare spreads upon his muscles as he seems to buckle under Hannibal’s damned touch. What it seems for him to utterly yield into the ministration is intensifying warmth as his heart seem to jack up faster than his sprinting form. As soon as his straining erection pushes through the confinement of the heavy fabric, he’s quick to discard the only burdensome weight that seem to ground him in the place as if already sunk into a puddle of quicksand - his oxfords and socks. With nimble movements, he succeeds in getting rid of both of them, but the stubborn denim refuses to cooperate and rumples around his ankles. There would be no mistake in that the visible stain would already have been painted through the down tilting motion. The velvety skin already tinged livid mauve with onslaught of surging blood as his cock twitches up like a slow-moving metronome. With suggestive tinge of Hannibal’s blood still clinging onto his fingerprints, he is about to push a finger between the transparent viscous fluid, between his engorged crown and the creased sleeve that continues to push downward. Thrown off his feet and his heart somersaulting up in the air with a low, guttural grunt, their pressed bodies draw a dramatic, yet swift acute angle and slide a few inches against the slick ground. The evidence of the workout still present like blood splatters from the crime scene. With the added velocity, his discarded pants flings across the other side of the room and lands quite unceremoniously, as he seems to do with an effort to break the landing. His fully hard, aching cock completely entrapped between their bare skin and now the dominance (seems to have been) transferred to Hannibal, his words seem to tie all their confrontations, mishaps and tumultuous collections of events to come to a denouement. With his equally serpentine grin as the palpitating heartbeat creates an ear-splitting pulses, his spine sharply rolls, urging for more fretting. “And missed my fucking taste,” he could feel the warmth quickly transpire to sweat as it traces the curve of his neck. “Are you going to lick the whole thing over or milk the whole fucking thing like a straw?” A rough tug as he stretches Hannibal’s neck as far as it goes, then digs his teeth just over where he feels the gentle throb. What seemed unperturbed begins to generate more energy than the rolling thunder etching the vast sky.  


	35. Chapter 35

The sound of Nigel’s sultry voice enhances his arousal, the purr in his ear about taste. Slowly he lifts his gaze to look his brother square in the face. “I didn’t appreciate your tastes back then, but now… I will savor and cherish all of you this time.” For emphasis he kissed his twin sharply, all teeth grazing and tongue probing. Only to take his time to suck on Nigel’s bottom lip, as he pulled back again to shift his last remaining article of clothing. He sat up and slid his boxer briefs down his ass, and shimmied out of them, all while doing his best not to lose any skin to skin contact with his brother. With his cock finally freed, it bobbed enticingly against his stomach, before he angled it downward so he might press it against the other’s eagerly waiting erection. Once their most intimate parts were touching he fell forward again to continue thrusting his hips against the other’s. Between the two of them he could feel a slick fluid smear across their quivering stomachs. Both of them leaking precum, from such a build up sexual tension and waiting so long to do anything at all about it. He couldn’t help grasping at the hair on the nape of Nigel’s neck, while his other hand snaked between their sweating bodies. He never once stopped his rutting, and rubbing against his brother’s equally hard cock. With a confident grip, he rest the back of his hand against Nigel’s stomach while holding on to his twin’s cock, he then thrust himself against his own palm, the other’s cock, and at the same time squeezed the heads of their leaking, throbbing erections for added stimulation.

After working up quite a frenzy between them, be could feel his own pulse in the throbbing of his stiff erection. They took turns sharing kisses, and he could feel the blood that had welled up in the bite marks start to dry, after smearing between the press of their bodies. After all was said and down, they would literally and figuratively be covered in a multitude of fluids. The thought pleased him, as he enjoyed leaving his mark, and scent on his brother. More copious amounts of pre cum has spread between the hard press of their bodies, and he can’t resist with thumb and forefinger rubbing the head of Nigel’s cock, gathering a slimy snail like trail of fluid between his two digits. While still thrusting his painfully stiff cock against the other’s stomach, and erection, he brings his thumb up to his lips, and watches the look on Nigel’s face as he licks his thumb clean of the clear fluid. Their is a devilish sort of grin spreading across his face, and the unique salty tang slides across his taste buds. There is no way he could ever forget that familiar flavor of his other half. With his throat working, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, he rests his head against Nigel’s shoulder and tells him. “It is just as I remember, a hundred thousand times have I tasted you in my dreams, and it has always been the same.” Slyly while they took a reprieve from their rutting and rubbing against each other, he continued to stroke the both of them in his hand. It was slower and more gentle, but with still a firm grip, their foreskin sliding up and down simultaneously. With his other hand he slid in down the length of Nigel’s body pausing to pinch his nipple, but continues on downwards. Stopping he slicks the fingers of his free hand with their pre cum, that pooled on his twin’s stomach.

With slick fingers, he lightly rubs circles around the sensitive flesh just under his brother’s scrotum and above the anus. Expertly he finds the spot he knows will drive his brother wild. Lightly he trails feather light caresses against the delicate spot, and knows he hit the mark when Nigel inhales a sharp intake of breath. Still stroking his hand in a steady rhythm against their cocks, he also traces circular motions against Nigel’s prostate externally. His twin’s breathing grows heavier, and he could tell he was really getting into it, this was just like the things they used to do back in Paris when they were much younger. In a sudden idea of nostalgia, he gets an idea, and stops massaging his brother’s prostate. Squirming his way downward, he places kisses all along his twin’s chest, hovering just over the other’s cock. Taking his time, he licks the head clean of any remaining fluids, and starts to suck the thick throbbing tip of Nigel’s erection. He saviors the musky scent, the salty taste, and all the familiar noises that his brother makes, when he is very horny and turned on. Teasingly he toys with the slit in the head of his brother’s cock, running the tip of his tongue against it, and sucking more pre cum up as it leaks freely. He doesn’t stop there, as it wasn’t his main goal, and instead lets his brother’s cock pop out of his mouth, while he turns his attention elsewhere. Forcefully, he grabs a hold of Nigel’s hips, and pulls him closer, angling his brother’s body to make it easier to give him a rim job. With a wet slick thumb, he keeps a press on the external spot of his twin’s prostate, and lightly runs his tongue against the wrinkled skin of Nigel’s hole, only to be greeted by a shudder of pleasure from the other. With a smug look, and a half a smirk, he soothingly tells his brother. “I’ll take care of you, my dear.” stroking his thumb over the sensitive spot of his twin’s prostate he adds.” Relax into it. Good.” 

___

Never the one to be completely unperturbed, the whirling dormancy slowly manifests to his abdomen rippling as if the serenity had been disturbed with a heavy drumming of the pitter-patter. Constantly stimulating and flaring over his skin as his throbbing erection and every protruding inch of his vein seem to have their own heartbeat. The velvety skin tinges with mauve, the creased folds pulled tight as the sticky substance coats between his foreskin and the engorged head. “Why sudden appreciation? What makes everything different from now and back then?” He didn’t need Hannibal’s confirmation to know the exact reason why - all the accumulation of outpouring thoughts. The thought of being connected and in love with the individual who knew him even better than he himself ever did. The thought of plunging deep into that desire as his mind of a roller coaster connects with imminent plummet and helixes and vortexes, the feeling is incomparable to have someone that is more than capable and enthusiastic to have the same ride along with him. With the back of his knees grounding down to press Hannibal’s lower half adhered to his own, his hardened rough fingers grope to trace his twin’s jawline. The lingering sleekness of the blood and its unmistakably arousal-propelling aftertaste beings more urgency about his movement. Pulling back with Hannibal’s relentless rutting with equal intensity, the friction increases and entraps between his already blazing skin. His twin continuing to egg him on as the gasoline pours onto the trailing wildfire. Muscles quiver with exquisite arousal, surging from sparkling set of ripples underneath the crescent, agglomerating luster as sheen of sweat coats their coppery, intertwined forms. Every inch of his skin films with aggrandizing glow under the dimmed illumination and the unique scent accentuates against his puffing breaths.    

Now the generated heat immediately encompasses inside Hannibal’s palm as their rock-hard erections kiss and squeeze together, as their pressed hearts frenetically pump out blood to accommodate the intensity of the maneuver. Fingers clamp onto the expanse of Hannibal’s broad back as another one continues to rake through the damp, dark locks as slurps, strained breaths, dripping arousal drown out the world. With his head tilted back and lips parted slightly, he lets his corporeality offer no resistance as he goes along with wherever the wind blows. As teenagers, they had openly experimented with copious amount of sexual activities and his body had been the most veracious apparatus that came with languorous stretch of limbs as he relinquished control under Hannibal’s scrupulous, expert touches. It’s like entering the maze you can easily get lost in, or be cocooned underneath the blanket of heat radiating from Hannibal’s body, so he can’t see clearly. All the lust he can be blinded with such dense mist as he watches through the thickening and weighty percussion, a coherent sound they generate through the lasciviousness of increased amount of fluids and the slapping of their skin. With slight flush tinting the high arch of his cheekbones as quickened pulse beats against the taut cords along the curve of his neck, he could feel the slow arch of his spine, thrusting into the grip with his own spreading quirk of lips. His nose crinkles as he takes in the rush of their familiar redolence. His own grip clasps over Hannibal’s hand, the thick viscous fluid immediately oozes through the stinging slit. joining to widen the warm, sticky puddle. 

Rolling his body as his twin begins to find the special spot where his body would unwind into a series of benumbing spasms that would wreck his body with immediate gush. His abdomen tightens further as it contracts, deflated lungs send a warning signal as his wanton expression, transfigured and blissful as his fluttering eyelids pinch shut. Feeling his gluteus tighten and lift into the gyrating motion. Immediately transported to the Parisian flat as the heaviness continue to pool around his lower groin, his chin slightly tucks, as he swallows the forcible urge to lunge forward and letting his hungered, unsatisfied want unfold. Yet, his fingers splay atop Hannibal’s sweaty locks, fingertips digging to scrape through the scalp as he tugs. Well aware of the rumbling of his chest, with his heart in a fervent ebb and flow as it threatens to push through his throat, he immediately lunges when Hannibal’s warm cavern comes close just enough, wanting every inch of intense heat to ablaze through the aching length. Forced to let go of his persistent hold on Hannibal’s hair and back as they slap back down onto the hard floor, now dribbled and pooled with their sweat and fluids, his gulping breath makes his entire form to concretely locked in place. The immediate warmth makes his hole to gape, as the tip of Hannibal’s tongue probes through the tightened coil. His stinging slit pulsates even more as it rests gingerly against his slanted stomach. Stifled underneath the indulgent heat, after a series of violent wave of convulsions, he lets out a pent-up choked puff that sends the faucet to break. With the upward momentum carrying his half-folded body to be confounded in a toe-curling orgasm, the overflow of pearly white spouts and draws splattering arches all over his chest and stomach. His own body wrestling with the exquisite ripple as his body goes into spasm. Not at all expecting to release this quick, he reels from the spreading lassitude with a huff of breath, his dilated hazel transfixed to the copious amount of release. “What the fuck...” Still locked in a bit of slithering movement as his cock drizzles the last bit of dense beads, he’s too aghast and lost for words. “What just happened?”   


	36. Chapter 36

Not once did he stop teasing Nigel’s tight little opening. It had been a very long time since he gotten to enjoy himself this much, by lapping away at his brother’s sensitive erogenous zones. It wasn’t until he felt Nigel’s body rocking into that old familiar tell tale sign of orgasm that he stops, and looks up. His brows pinched together in curiosity and confusion for a moment, while his brother finishes his release. As it appears that his twin was as baffled as he had been, he smirks when the cursing starts. “I believe, my dear that you are out of practice.” Oh he certainly knew what was going on now. When they first had started their sexual experimentation as young boys in their flat in Paris, he had been able to make Nigel reach climax relatively quick. It wasn’t until months of experimenting on and teasing each other did his brother work up the ability to last much longer when he started his probing around down there. There was a sort of excitement to the knowledge that Nigel was out of practice, and it meant now that they would be able to work together to build back up his twin’s endurance. Like a smug snake, he sits up just enough to hover over Nigel’s lower body, and starts licking up the pools of sticky fluid, he wanted to enjoy the taste of his brother’s semen. He wasn’t about to let any of it go to waste, and he let the flavor wash over his tongue, savoring the unique taste.

It wasn’t until he had Nigel almost completely cleaned off, did he glance up to meet the stare that his brother gave him. It held a sort of heat, that he was familiar with. He read it as a sign that his twin enjoyed watching him lick at his stomach in such a sensual way. Until a few seconds ago, he himself had been painfully hard, but his own release had not been the end goal he sought. He had only wanted to focus on Nigel, and give him the full attention that he deserved. He nosed playfully at his brother’s flat stomach, and breathing in a deep breath. With it he took in the smell of their mingling odors. His brother’s scent was much more heavy, clinging in the air after his orgasm. His eyes closed, for a few minutes, in a content manner. He hadn’t been this relaxed and at peace in so long he couldn’t remember. He felt almost whole again, while there was still a missing piece to the puzzle that was left in the wake of Mischa’s death, Nigel was able to in his way, fill a large part of that gaping abyss. While he knew that his twin could never replace what was taken from him, nor did he wish it to be so. Nigel’s appearance certainly helped take away that dull pain that he kept locked deep in his heart, far from the light of day, where no one would be able to find it. Suddenly his eyes flew open, and it dawned on him two things, the new flood of information made him almost tingle with bristling energy. “You are out of practice, because you haven’t let anyone else, but me do that to you, and I haven’t done those things to you in a very long time…” With his head tilted to the side, he couldn’t help the strange look he was giving Nigel. His twin had confirmed, what he knew to be the truth, that as far as male on male sexual relations went, he had been Nigel’s first and last so to speak. His brother, had all but acknowledged that he hadn’t let anyone since him, touch him in that way. Something about this new found information made his heart hammer uncharacteristically in his chest.

He was practically panting like a leopard after a struggling kill. He could not put words to the emotion he was feeling, and it took all of his well trained willpower to keep his face blank and unreadable. Inwardly he wanted nothing more than to pounce on Nigel like a lion, and have his way with him, but he did not think that would be very proper for their first time in nineteen years. He wanted it to be special, and romantic, not animalistic and in the basement. He wasn’t sure he would be able to stop himself either once he got started. There would be no going back in this mode, his apex predator mode, that monster he kept hidden, that was always lurking in the shadows, with horns and dark skin. Without saying a word, he sprang up gracefully to his feet, and slipped on his discarded boxers. Leaving his destroyed shirt and pants in the basement he would take care of it later. He turned his back to his twin, and nearly took the stairs two at a time, as if he were fleeing the scene of a crime. He had snagged a spare robe from a closet as he walked in a daze down the hall. He had shrugged it on and loosely tied it shut. It wasn’t until he was safely tucked into his large brown leather hi-back chair in his office that he was able to breath again. His erection was so hard, and throbbing that it tented the front of his boxer briefs and left his robe gaping open upon his lower half. Knowing that he was the first and last man that Nigel had ever been with, had sent him into such a worked-up frenzy. He felt like he would explode if he barely even touched himself, and hesitated to do so. Swallowing hard enough to make his Adam’s apple bob up and down, and finally reached down and released his erection from the tight strain of his boxers. With his head against the back of the chair and his eyes closed, he replayed the imagine of Nigel’s naked body coiled and shaking with release, and started to touch himself again, working up to his own climax. 

___

As his neck sharply arches backward, the aftershock continues in the form of rippling tremor as it causes his body to rock. His trembling skin gleams with a film of perspiration as the last spurt draws a dramatic arch over his abdomen. Heels sink down to the chilled floor, yet the atmosphere sweeps with blaze of their concentrated scents, mostly his own. Slick beads adhering and weaving through the mat of his chest hair as his heart flips and somersaults within the chest cavity, he lets more strained, yet dripping with molasses-like enthrallment known through more strings of profanities. Swinging back and forth between Romanian and Lithuanian, the grasp of language seems to be further off as his hurtling head muddles with musky tang and Hannibal’s knowing upward gaze enrapturing him over and above. With mingling sweat and spillage of semen pooling around the planes of his taut abdomen, his throbbing heart continues to drum with reverberating beat, resonant through the expanse of his skin as Hannibal’s tongue sets ablaze upon his abdomen. Through their thorough exploration and experimentation of the bodies, he had learned to control exactly when and how much he would release. They would even simultaneously orgasm as they crossed their bodies together, penetrating themselves together as their coalescing warmth became scrumptious than the overflowing chocolate fountain. The scalding passion evolving into a voracity of shared provocation, as their tight entrance accommodated and accepted the alluring symphony of carnal desire and resplendent euphoria, both severe and voluptuous. 

Hannibal’s lapping of his release only aggrandizes the sensation, the memories of their zenith years stored deep within his subconscious. His mind fluctuates, between the ecstatic contentment along with the skepticism and anger spawning with his twin’s remark about him being out of practice. Lips press firmly into a thin line as his head cocks to the side, feeling his damp hair clinging onto his drenched forehead as he masks a long-suffering sigh beneath the breathless pants. With a furrowed brow, he percolates the past nineteen years and comes to the conclusion that Hannibal’s remark had been painfully true. There had been not a single individual who would be privileged enough to see him in such a vulnerable and exposed position, even going so far as to taste his essence for the matter. Mostly, it had been numerous occasions of mindless fucks, only locked in series of relentless and animalistic rams and thrusts, clasped fingers and grunts, the steam engine burning off all the coal as only evanescence spine-chilling tingle barely incited him enough to release outside of the constricting coil, watching his accumulating pool of pearly white drip over the curve of the bottom’s back. Although gratifying, it only concluded in a resolute denouement - absence of perception and infatuating huddle, permeating bewilderment of delight. Through the fickle of emotions as he grows sullen in rather dogmatic way, he lets the kindling jealousy rise off his body like the heatwave emitting from the asphalt on the dog days of summer. Behind the clammed eyelids, he comes forth upon the spreading crimson, as the blackness from the corner of his eyes permeate with the familiar etchings. The view is akin to his own veined coppery skin protruding even further with the frenetic pump of crimson as the cords around his neck and forehead angrily and tightly strung as his eyes snap open. He cannot get away from the hollowness of his chest, as if something unforeseen had penetrated and teared through his torso as his exposed heart drops all the way down to where he returns Hannibal’s strange look with his own enigmatic perplexity.

“Not in my damned fucking life I would splay open my legs and let anyone savor me in such a submissive position,” he snarls through his bare teeth as an irascible wave kisses over his basking immobile form as if he had been washed ashore. The dazzling beam slants and contours over him as the pinning weight above him abruptly disappears behind the doors. Despite his bubbling anger, his body aches for more as the resounding drum of his heartbeat gradually stabilizes. Shooting back a penetrative gaze behind Hannibal’s remaining phantasm, the air still breathes with his twin’s presence as he pulls himself off from the quick-sinking ground. With a breathy huff, his curled fists thump against the earth as his sweeping gaze registers the strewn mess of their discarded clothes. A stentorian voice in his head urges his usual primal and burning emotion. Whoever Hannibal had been dating or whoever had came across his twin in a wrong way, that fuckery would end the motherfucker as he would be a more than an acceptable scapegoat. With a glazed expression, he leaves the room without ever caring for the garments, as he had planned to quench his seething emotion flashed through his hazel orbs in a coruscant flashes. After guzzling down a tall glass of cold water with a succession of large gulps, he sticks his head inside the fridge, rummaging through the grocery they had purchased earlier.  _ Definitely those fucking steaks _ and  _ maybe _ he’ll give whatever the  _ fuck  _ Hannibal would make for himself as the array of tapas weren’t half bad. Maybe even give a grilling a try, as that would be the only thing he would be good at doing without jeopardizing his own health and the well-maintenance of Hannibal’s state-of-the-art kitchen. Wanting to take a quick shower before delving into the task he assigned himself, he skips through the stairs in a feline stance, his barefeet almost inaudible against the polished surface of the wood. Tracing a questionable scent emitting from the half-shut door behind Hannibal’s study, his acumen is quick to conclude the ebullience had been completely reciprocated. Although it would’ve been much more equanimous if he had been the one to urge Hannibal’s release.  


	37. Chapter 37

Every morning Hannibal wakes up just before sunrise. He goes about his daily routine, and takes his time to get dressed. After he has his outfit on for the day, he cooks himself breakfast. He then sits down to eat, while reading the news articles on his tablet. Today, he was awake extra early, so that he could go out and pick up a few items. Namely the custom made holster, and forged investigators license for Nigel. When he got home, he cooked breakfast, and after he finished cleaning up the dining table, he placed the gifts at the end of the table, waiting for when his twin finally ventured downstairs. As an added bonus, he also left the gun he had hidden from Nigel the first night his brother arrived, along with a handwritten letter in fine curling scrawl.

_ Dear Nigel, _

_ I trust you slept well, if you are hungry, there is a covered dish in the refrigerator. I shall make this brief, it is my wish that you are not still confused, about my behavior from last night. I had my reasons, how ever justified they are or not. To make it up to you, I am giving you a peace offering.   _

_ I am giving back to you, your gun, along with a new custom made holster. If we are to be seen together in public, and back up the tale I have spun about what it is you do, you should at least look the part. You will also find a forged license for a private investigator from Romania. I trust you will know what to do with these things, and do know, this is not my trying to buy your affections. _

_ Call this if you will, the beginning of a new chapter in our relationship. No one more than I, would like for time to reverse, so that we may start over, and have things work out between the two of us. It is my hope that this is not just wishful thinking on my part. I get out of the office at 7:30. Why don’t you meet me there, and don’t forget to wear your new gift. I would like for you to show it off for me. _

_ There is no one I would like protecting my interests more, _

_ than you. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Hannibal     _

After he folded the letter neatly once, he left it on the table with Nigel’s name delicately written on it. If his twin was no longer interested in furthering their relationship, he had just given his younger brother a way out. He knew that if Nigel did not come this office as he was leaving this evening, it would mean that his twin had given up on them being together. He was optimistic about his brother’s feelings, he had faith that Nigel would not abandon him again. He choose not to think about what he would do if his twin decide they didn’t want to be with him anymore. A fight would probably ensue, and one of them might become gravely injured. That outcome was only a tiny possibility, and he refused to give it any more thought. Fingers trailed over the corner of the letter one last time, lingering in place before he left for work, he then turned on his heel and picked up his keys. It was only a short drive to his office, only ten to fifteen minutes away, depending on traffic. Every business day he would go into the office at 9 am to do paperwork, his first appointment of the day was at 10 am. The last patient to be seen for the day would be at 6 pm. If everything went according to plan, Nigel would meet him at his office just as his last patient was leaving. Then they would possibly be able to go out for a night of real training. There was nothing more thrilling to him, than the idea of being able to hunt down a prey with his beloved brother. That was IF things worked out they way he suspected they would. 

His first appointment went off without a hitch. The only reason he didn’t find his patients entirely banal and sad is because, he derived a sort of sick fascination out of studying their pathetic lives. He diligently took notes, very thorough and detailed notes at that. He had them written down in big notebooks, color-coded with stickers on the spine. After taking a break at 4 pm to drink a glass of wine, he mentally prepared himself for one of his more difficult patients at 5 pm. He sat at his desk with his wine, the bottle just within reach. He did not often sit still for long, he like to stay busy, and on the move. After he cleared away his glass, and the bottle of wine, he stood in front of the desk. His hand reached out to fix the ornate letter opener that sat on the edge of his desk, placing it at a 90 degree angle with everything else. A habit he couldn’t seem to shake. He needed to have everything in it’s place. Finally at 6 pm, when his last appointment for the day was about to arrive, he got up from his desk, buttoned his suit jacket, and glanced once briefly around the room. He adjusted his tie, and opened the door of his office, a smile perched upon his lips. Staying just inside the doorway, one hand resting on the door, the other loose at his side he ushered his patient inside his office. “Please, come in.” 

___

The fleeting pleasant air of late spring embraces Nigel’s limply thrown limbs as the daybreak shoots merciless array of dazzling spread of rays against the unveiled window. Knocking against the closed window by the bed as his unhindered vagabond soul takes on an excursion upon their shared memories. In particular, the first memory of their fornication. The mere thought itself makes him to feel as though his chest might be about to burst. Looking back in their times of experimentation and exploration upon shared carnal desires, absolutely perplexed and awed by how every little thing seem to stimulate and arouse each other, especially and more openly how it affects him the most. Each of those territorial caresses and almost choreographed steps, their muscles and throbbing hearts in near synchronization enabled them to perceive beyond the tangible, to extract something infinite beyond their finite corporeality. In his vivid polychromatic dream, a whirling blur passes in front of his dilated pupils as lust threads and flays with each crease sketching through the sheets, as each arched vertebrae sings in soft and low aria, gradually climaxing. As his core twists, his back arches and stretching as his rutting continues, almost elongating his body like one of those Greco paintings. As if possessed, his gaze locks in each freeze-frame as his hurried movements become a series of blur. The lingering image of the snapshot before smoothly connects without any visible seam as it clarifies before fading away. It hadn’t been a penetration, yet his alarmingly frantic and audible breaths and Hannibal’s shuddering flesh, a result of satiation. What happened down in the basement had been not a struggling to surmount some huge barrier, the fragile layer between the nature of their complex relationship, pendulous between love and grudge. A truckload of emotional baggage attached as they were in the in-progress, doing whatever necessary to bring that into a  _ mutual agreement  _ \- and it  _ has _ . 

His mind had drifted away into sound slumber from the night before and through friction and time, a exquisite wash of afterglow makes his still body to participate in the act. How did he ever get to the guest room, aka his permanent room now is a complete mystery - the first thing he perceives is his hot morning breath seeping through the pores of the tasteful wallpaper, along with his tightened grip over the pillowcase, naked lower limbs conveying the electrifying excitement still lingering within his still sluggish mind. Squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to ignore the morning wood making his stiff erection rise towards his stomach and slip back to the realm of contentment, he is abruptly awoken by the tenacious onslaught of lust, the dream carried onto the tangible reality. Their past memories were never going to be antiquated.  _ Weren’t many relationships have been built in the name of lust? _ Of course, there were many facets to be considered, but obviously, their strikingly gorgeous appearance definitely had played a world of difference. With an appearance of a lion after his nap, yet his rumbling and growling stomach needs to be satisfied first than his unrelenting compulsion. Plucking himself out of the sleep and padding downstairs without any sign of Hannibal present within the confine of their mansion, he immediately sticks his head inside the fridge after finding the note addressed to him. A film of sweat licks through his bare torso as the slanting brightness continues to bask his coppery skin as he retrieves a covered dish. Egg Benedict, with copious amount of bacon with Hollandaise sauce on the side. Thrusting the dish into the oven and trying to find his discarded clothes from the day before, he snatches the letter and reads it over before making his way back towards the kitchen. Thin lips quirking up in elation, his fingers tremble with excitement as he pulls on his boxer briefs. Wolfing down the breakfast in beastly fashion, he hoards the contents Hannibal had left and retreats back to his room, putting them on his bed before disappearing behind the half-open door of the guest bathroom. 

He had been still well aware of the unbearable intensity brimming through his heated body, as he let the cold water drum down upon his body. Perhaps too vivid image of him getting so worked up, the appointed time of their meeting sealed onto his skin like a brand. It signified much more than a mere meeting - Hannibal’s realistic romanticism rubs off through each elegant cursive as their refurbished relationship will soon take off with a renewed priority and prominence. He pictures Hannibal’s quivering expanse of broad shoulders and muscles beneath the fabric and his own front, breathing concurrently as he traces his palm and rough calloused fingers upon the masculine lines of defined V, his twin shoved against the pretentious office wall, like marking his territory. As the fire intensifies, the crook of his elbow hooks over Hannibal’s neck, constricting like a boa as he feels carotid arteries pressed upon his hard skin. As soon as he imagines the rush of Hannibal’s distinctive, iron-rich blood, looking more like black underneath the dimmed atmosphere as they coalesce through sweat, blood, fluids, a burst of moan tears out from his throat, still husky and deep from stubborn cling of sleep. His skin bristles from the shock of too-cold water as delicious release washes over him, accelerating further as the cascading splatter continue to mar the pristine screen of the shower booth. 

The rest of the day before the delectable evening rolls around is spent with him bringing out the grill, cooking those steaks he had abandoned from the night before. He silently thanks he didn’t succumb to the rapacious greed and saving the consumption until now, as he cuts through the charred marks from the grill. As the succulent juice seeps through the tastebuds and tinges his curled lips, he thinks of Hannibal’s face, forcefully pressed into the wall as he fucks his aloof, arrogant alien’s brains out. 


	38. Chapter 38

The sound of pen scratching on paper was pronounced in the dimly lit office. Hannibal sat across from whom he considered one of his most interesting patients. Trevor was a young man of twenty-five, with relatively good looks. Trevor had been a patient of his going on four years now. The notebooks he had on this particular patient was fairly extensive. Little by little he had cultivated a bond and a relationship with the young man, hoping to take him under his wing. His hope had been to form a sort of father-son dynamic or someone he could mentor. All of his carefully laid plans, and the multitude of hours spent in session with the would be protegee. Now, came crashing down around him like a house of cards. The pen stopped it’s trail across the page, and his eyes flicked from the notebook to the patient sitting directly across from him. His lips pinched together a fraction in thought. While he knew that the young man was slightly unhinged, and could be unstable this new development put a new wrinkle in his plan. Choosing his words carefully, he spoke calmly and slowly. “Our relationship, is and always has been strictly professional, and I’m afraid that it must remain so.” He could not say that he did not see this coming, as he had fostered the attachment in his patient. He had not anticipated a love confession on the other hand.

Trevor stood stood up abruptly, his chair sliding backwards a little from the force. “How can you say that? Isn’t this what you wanted… to be closer to me?” His voice was raised, with an angry lit to it. The young man had a penchant for aggression, and also had control issues. His anxiety spiked when things did not go his way, and possibly would throw an adult temper tantrum. “I’ve been coming to see you for four years, and before you, I didn’t like anyone.” He was raking his fingers through his hair in frustration.

Hannibal kept his face blank, his throat worked, and he adjusted his tie. “And now?” He knew the answer, but still he asked the question. Even with his patient becoming angry and a little aggressive, he kept his calm, cool demeanor. He knew that things could potentially be dangerous, but that thought didn’t bother him.

“And now you are the only person I like, your everything to me.” The patient started to pace the floor behind his chair, glancing at Hannibal every so often, throwing him looks. “How can you not see that? I wouldn’t have kept coming to see you, if I didn’t see something there between us.”

“You will see what you want to see, Trevor.” Hannibal had stopped taking notes and watched his patient pacing back and forth, like a cat watching a nervous mouse. “I saw potential in you, Trevor. I watched you flourish, and I did see, but it was not my place to say or act-” Closing the notebook, and resting the pen on top. “-this is your hour, you may say whatever it is you wish.” Standing up, he buttoned his suit jacket, and walked over leisurely to his desk and sat on the edge looking and noting how close his sharp and deadly letter opener was. “As far as acting on those feelings, I fear they must remain in this office. I have no desire to have a relationship with you outside, because I value you as my patient.”

“So that’s it then? You just toss me aside, when I say and do something you don’t like..” Trevor was glaring at Hannibal, hatred bubbling just under the surface of his skin. There was a fine tremor to him, as if he couldn’t contain his anger. “I saw you, a few days ago with a guy, that looked just like you. I didn’t know you had a brother. You know everything about me, but I know nothing about you.” Shaking his head he looked like he had made up his mind about something. “Doesn’t seem very fair does it, but for once I know something you don’t.” Without warning Trevor pulled a smaller handgun from the small of his back, where he had it kept concealed. In a bit of a rush, and with some lazy aiming, he fired point blanking into the middle of Hannibal’s chest.

The only saving grace of having lightning quick reflexes, was that he had been able to just barely get his vital organs out of the range of fire, but the shot still took him hard in the shoulder. His ears were ringing from the gunfire in the small office. The smell of gunpowder lingered in the air. Trevor had fled the building as soon as the gun when off, taking the weapon with him, the young man slammed the office door as he ran. With a hand on his shoulder Hannibal kept pressure there, as he slumped down to the floor, with his back leaning up against his desk. Blinking, he glanced at his wristwatch, remembering that Nigel was due to arrive at anytime now. His heart rate never once raised, and he was going over plans in his head of how he was going to find and catch Trevor, he wasn’t going to let this slide, it had been very rude.. 

___

The last empty bottle of Hannibal’s home brew gets carelessly tossed against the corner wall of the kitchen as he chews down the last succulent morsel with a decisive force. With one of his elbows languidly propping him over as the sinking fullness transports him immediately to a place intangible. Enraptured in a state of blind emotion, filled with extreme sensation without any cognitive awareness. He’s not quite slipped into a siesta before yet another of their fateful meetings which would seal their waking happiness. When his senses, perception and feelings are extremely elevated, he thinks of one thing through the void of comprehension - the feel of waking up in the middle of the night, shifting against the creased bedsheets and entangled duvet to find Hannibal in their most peaceful, innocent and vulnerable state. Through his back, he could feel the breathing of his twin, as if the weight of the world settles against his, not against Hannibal’s. Maybe it was the reason of his wake - how memories solidify and become a permanent fixture upon the creases of his brain, forming indestructible strands of chains to revisit something so much more than a memory. Through shared experiences, loyalty and unmatched devotion, the inconsequential memory would transpire and cook up a storm even when his eyes see darkness. His heart would always see the patch of blinding light that would serve him as an anchor. The presence always tagging along with him even in the midst of burdensome and uneasy task. 

The tenacious cling of moisture contouring down the curve of his spine, the resounding warmth of his skin still recollects the snippets of the unforgettable memories of them fully engaged in a carnal act - the imminent rush of rippling muscles, locked in an intense spasm desperately urging for release. Multitudes of quivering sensation ripping through his torso as if his discernible touch had turned into an exquisite radiance of warmth, like a spreading blaze of a bonfire. A groan and snarl, turning much more hoarse with desire, he could feel an arm clutch half-undone shirt from the front, while he haphazardly buries his voluptuous lips against the defined curve of Hannibal’s neck, feeling the pulse throb in a strong steadiness. Bracing and visceral, an unendurable sense of satiation rips through with a constant shudder and he feels the scalding salty tears push through the rim of his eyeballs. Hannibal’s ardent ecstasy is only communicated purely only by the synchronized, wavy movements. Swallowing each other in a vehement surge of gale, tumultuously growing as his twin melts into him and vice versa. Have him coalesce through his own painfully throbbing veins. He could feel him plummet into the vortex of Hannibal’s coiled heat, through the alarming contraction which signals their fatal, yet enthralling desire’s unleash, comes through a jet of exquisite surge as he falls forward against the damp plane of solid copper, as if swooning. 

The compelling and spellbinding rush of images continue to swirl into the recess of his mind while in a short, sated slumber amongst strewn plates, bone-dry bottles and neglected utensils as if looking through a crime scene. He could still smell the juice and desirable succulency of the bodily fluids in the midst of wake. Still teetering between nakedness of both his corporeality and mentality and sudden glare of the potency of lingering recollections he vividly etched as he plucks himself off from his swimming head. His front teeth press hard against his lower lip as he frantically moves about, in a search for his phone. His barefoot almost steps on the screen as he slides his body like a slithering snake. 6:56pm. Leaving just enough span of time for him to get dressed and make a beeline for Hannibal’s office. When he exhales, he could scent an unmistakable scent of sticky semen; potent like molasses and dulcet sweet like a dripping drop of honey. With a trailing profanity painting a vivid stroke upon the deadly silent atmosphere of the kitchen, he stomps up the stairs and exactly fifteen minutes later, he’s clad in his wiener dog shirt and tight dark gray slacks, along with the loaded revolver and holster wrapped tight around the expanse of his chest.        

The bike ride itself has no room to slip through his mingled mishmash full of lecherous pleasures as the high beam turns even more so dazzling against the unfolded array of celestial bodies and intermittent glow of the aligned streetlights. Too occupied with unbated breaths and plummeting feeling akin to stepping into a tar black mess, he fails to manifest the blurring image of a young man fleeing the office with haste, almost brushing path with him as he whiffs the lingering scent of the man. Not too dissimilar to how he smells after exerting a fatal blow to the bastard who had deserved it. That distinctive piquancy of the sugariness exuded from the pores of his skin. His hovering hand continually brushes against the smooth grip of his gold-encased revolver. His oxfords click rhythmically against the staircase and then, onslaught of the distinctive bitter and charred scent of gunpowder takes over his senses as he feels his heart pulsate like a wild beast honing all of his senses towards an oblivious prey. His weight shifts, pivots as he makes a quick turn with a grim, straight face. 

Pretending his stubborn strands of memories no longer having a hold of him would be an understatement. The presented sight of Hannibal slumped down on the ground with blood marring the very office where his damned imagination would manifest into a realization had come to a closure. A massive devastation sinks into his heart like a demolished infrastructure of the building. Shooting daggers behind him as fingers curl with a discernible twitch, he lowers himself to the ground and mutters. “It’s that damn motherfucker from the grocery store yesterday.” He doesn’t need to question his twin for a confirmation, the statement flows more with the weight like a conclusion. The fine lines etch through the corner of his eyes and traverses through his forehead with stern etches as he hooks an arm beneath Hannibal’s uninjured side, springing them up from the comfort of a sinking swamp. “My bike’s faster and there’s no fucking way I’m driving your Bentley.” 


	39. Chapter 39

Relatively unconcerned for his own mortality, he sat on the floor with his pocket square firmly pressed into the wound of his shoulder. A few seconds later, he saw his twin stomp into the office, the other was practically followed by a storm cloud. He could smell and taste Nigel’s anger on the air like ozone, it trailed him like the cigarette smoke he had around him always. He sat up as best he could manage, as his brother came to kneel at his side. The first thing out of his mouth was a snarky remark about his brother’s attire. “Must you ruin the wonderful gift I have given, with such an unremarkable shirt?”  In reply to his twin’s angry outburst about Trevor, he added soothingly. “Your assessment is correct. It would appear…, a patient of mine had seen us together.” His throat clicked, it was hard to swallow, he could most definitely use a drink, but it would not help. The alcohol would only thin his blood, and make the bleeding far worse. Instead, he looked up and met Nigel’s eyes. “You will drive my Bentley. Or I will drive myself.” He pulled himself to his feet with the help of his twin, he didn’t necessarily need the help, but it made things easier.  “For once, Nigel. Please do just as I say. I have plans for my sweet wayward patient, and for it to work, you must follow my lead.” The look in his gaze was almost pleading with a hint of blood she to come. A finely contained anger lurked under the surface of his skin. You couldn’t even tell that he had been shot, save for all of the blood. “I need your full cooperation, can you do that for me, just this once?” He straightened out his suit jacket while he still kept eye contact with Nigel.  

Doctor Hannibal Lecter did not like to tell lies. In fact it was one of his biggest pet peeves. When all possible, he preferred to tell the truth, and if he couldn’t, he always found ways of getting around lies. Before Nigel even stumbled into his office, and the scene of the crime, he had cooked up an idea for finding Trevor. He was not going to tell the police that his patient was the one who shot him. He wanted to be the first one to find Trevor, because payback was a cruel mistress, and he had big, big plans for his little lost lamb. Nigel had driven him in the Bentley, under duress, to the hospital of his choosing. Luckily it was close by, and also happened to be the very same hospital that he used to be an ER Surgeon at. Before they arrived at the hospital, he went over a few things with Nigel. “For this to work, the police need to be looking in the wrong direction.” He asked Nigel to do his best not to do a lot of talking, and to pretend that he knew very little English. “If you need to talk to me, use our native tongue, please.” If the cops thought Nigel didn’t speak much English, then they wouldn’t bother him with too many questions. After that, he would be free to spin any tale he wished, and keep it as close to the truth as possible. Once they arrived at the hospital, they omitted Hannibal straight away, they need to do an operation on his shoulder. Just as they were wheeling him away for surgery, he smiled wistfully at Nigel. “What a remarkable pair we are. Now we truly match–” At the confused look on Nigel’s face, he pointed to the wound in his shoulder. “Opposite sides, identically different.” That was the last thing he said, before they took him away.

He did not like sedatives, nor did he like being under the influence of drugs, while others were around. He knew that he would never reveal his own secrets while out of it, but there was always that mind tingling fear at the back of his head. It was a heightened sense of his surroundings, that kept him fully aware of everyone and everything. He also had excellent spacial awareness, but that was mostly for in a fight. Everything he did, everything he said was carefully thought out, and he paid great attention to detail. The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes after coming out of surgery, was Nigel, who was sitting close at hand by his bedside. His brother was still wearing the same outfit from the night before. The custom-made shoulder holster he had made for his twin fit him perfectly. His twin filled out the rig like it was a custom-made shirt, it laid down even, and didn’t ride up in the back. After he poured over every inch of his brother he met his gaze.  Nigel wore a shit-eating smirk, and blinked at him innocently, he knew instantly that something was amiss. One long scrutinizing glance around the room told him that they were both alone. “What is it my dear brother? What have you done? I will not have secrets between us now, after so long.”

___

A brief glower turns into multitudes of hornet’s needles before withdrawing his slightly softened gaze back to Hannibal’s shot wound. Forcing the pocket square out from his twin’s grip, he forcefully presses it against the blooming crimson, almost imperceptible beneath the dark fabric. Fury begins to boil and bubble over with dangerous capacity, as all he could think of doing is beating the daylights out of the assailant as he feels his own knuckles strip the sensitive skin from the protruding bones and sinews. Sometimes the unspoken words held much more weight than the words themselves and this was the prime example of how his hazel manifested into thunderclouds, electrical charges flaring between his own and Hannibal’s as they remain fixated upon the other. He would’ve lashed out there and then, even under the scrutinization of the public. Feeling his muscles growing aflame with intermittent quivering, he lifts his head from the fluttering wound breathing with its own damned life and heaves a sigh that would squeeze all of the contained air from his lungs. “You fucking owe me for this, Hannibal, I won’t fucking forget it,” with his set jaw and lips stretched thin in horizontal line, as flickering crimson light dissipate into his red thick gaze, like a dry wind whipping through the air of the desert before a cry of a terrible sandstorm. “At least your fucking three-piece is fucking spectacularly and remarkably garish and ruined, I’ll use that as rag for my bike,” his stretched lips curl in a barely noticeable and roguish, sly smile.      

Even with the botch up of almost crashing into the curved driveway before familiarizing himself with the manual stick, the drive to Johns Hopkins takes a bare ten. “You’re gonna be out, it’s gonna be fucking easy enough to shut myself off until anyone dares to prod into the manner,” he already feels like he had taken a gut-wrenching blow to his abdomen, serving as a fucking wake-up call. Every pulse pumping his scalding rush of blood seems to threaten to bend every rib to perforate through his skin and with uncontrollable splurging emotions turning livid and acrid, he becomes completely engaged in the notion. Having taken a plunge of breathless moment of silence, he forces his clammed shut throat open, as he tastes a slightest hint of his blood in his mouth. He could never feel sober with the paradoxical sensation of feeling too much and being arctic cold, that sweeping bitter chill fueling disdain and exasperation. He could wear the oblivious foreigner’s mask believably well, yet, his mind concocts a devious scheme just after eavesdropping one of the doctor’s conversation with the head nurse about the subject of his brother. He knew when he saw one and it was indisputably conspicuous enough that the lingering gaze, staying too long over Hannibal, who was under the local anesthesia had been something entirely more than that of a worried colleague’s sympathy dripping off those deep blue. It was that of someone who was deeply in love, when Hannibal had been trying to leave him behind. That unrequited love, of longing and yearning. Like how addiction doesn’t only pertain to lack of willpower and self-control. It was chronic, which transcended the person’s limits and changed the chemicals in a person’s brain. _That fucking lighted gasoline before the wildfire._ Knowing his gut instinct had been almost always correct, he would patiently wait like a coiled viper in the waiting room, then strike when he can to eliminate him.

It doesn’t take too long for Nigel to get his way around the hospital and to come up with a devious scheme to wipe him out from the picture. With further scrutinization, he perceives that every three hours, nurses took clinical rotations to each hospital rooms and checked anything unusual. Most importantly, the name of the fucker with a knowing gaze of affection and limerence was Dr. Donald Sutcliffe, a neurologist. _A fucking neurologist_ snooping inside ER for god’s sake. He had been the first to respond, even before the surgeon took him inside. Sneaking into ‘staff only’ room with all the doctor’s scrubs with sheers. Taking a pair of latex gloves and putting them on, he awaits for the perfect time to slip into the doctor’s office unnoticed - the man only had a short consultation before taking off for the night. He could only hear the scribbling sound of the fountain pen over the patient file as he locks the door behind him.

Still fully inebriated and curled up in a surging flare of adrenaline even after he had properly discarded all the evidences of his crime, he watches daybreak slowly slant into the spacious windows. The air faintly reeks of antiseptic and faint trace of blood, blooming and seeping through Hannibal’s bandages. It may be well from lingering air he wears, his own brand of menace flooding with endless echoes of shrieking caw, drumming against his tympanum. Hannibal’s awakening signals a wave of calm, with a hint of mischief turning his gaze like the meadow bathing in rosy sunlight, with dancing streams of light that sparks glittering stars within the center of his hazel. He wouldn’t have to elaborate much, as Hannibal would see it behind the drawn curtain. “I killed that fucking bastard.” Wearing his stern and determined mask, his serpentine smirk sets in a sullen straightened line.  


	40. Chapter 40

“Who might that be, Nigel?” He knew. The question lay perched between them like an ominous raven on a fence post, waiting eagerly to peck out the eyes of the dead. Hannibal’s cheek twitched ever so slightly at the corner of his mouth, a smile trying not to break free. The wound in his shoulder was sore and aching, it made him stiff, and he was using no pain killers, he had insisted on it. The effects of the drug they used to knock him out, finally worked their way out of his system. Blinking, his eyes traveled from his brothers face to the ceiling of the drab hospital room. He lay, head back, hands folded neatly in front of him over top of the blanket that was tucked around his body. As his eyes made the slow journey from Nigel’s eyes to the ceiling, the smile spread, he seemed downright jovial. At a glance, he made quick work of counting how many ceiling tiles the room had, his OCD kicking in, he couldn’t help taking in his surroundings and notice every detail about his recovery room. The one saving grace was that he didn’t need to share a room with someone else. Patiently, he waited for his younger brother to answer him. He already knew what the reply would be, but he just wanted to hear the other say it. Once he heard Dr. Sutcliffe’s name he glanced back at his twin, eyes trailing back to their original place.  

He wet his dry lips with his tongue, and asked. “How did it make you feel, Nigel?” He was curious about how it made his brother feel, to kill. He knew that Nigel had the potential to be as smart, and quick witted as he was. The only difference was, that when it came to recreational drugs, he knew when to stop, and Nigel did not. In fact, they both knew a lot about drugs, but his twin leaned more towards the chemical types, and himself preferred the more natural stuff like Psilocybin mushrooms, for example. There was no doubt in his mind about how quickly Nigel had put two and two together, he most likely figured out about Dr. Sutcliffe very quickly, and the rage his twin felt, would have been instantaneous. He had let slip on Nigel and his first day of reunion, that he had an affair with someone. “You know, my dear. I had plans of my own, for the Doctor. Carefully laid plans, you know how much I love to sit on an idea when I get one.” He shifted ever so lightly in the hospital bed trying to get more comfortable. No matter how he moved, it didn’t get any better, so he settled. He was a Doctor, had worked in this very Hospital for many years, but he did not like to be a patient in one. Ever. “You always did have a way of changing my plans. You are  _ very _ unpredictable… Tell me, how did you do it?” 

“It’s truly a pity that this happened in a fit of rage. Spoils the meat that way.” He sounded so matter of fact, as if he were talking about hobbies or, shopping. A flash of merriment swirled in the depths of his eyes, the faint pin-prick of ruby, in his golden eyes dancing, and shining bright. He was enjoying himself as best he could given the circumstances. “Good news, I will not have to stay in the hospital long. It wasn’t such a major injury, that it would leave me bedridden for days on end.” He was itching to get up and move around. He didn’t like to sit idle for long. He dearly wished for his drawing materials, and glanced at his twin. “When you come back to the hospital, could you be a dear and bring me my drawing supplies, just the essentials.” His mind was starting to click back on all four cylinders, the drugs effect gone at last. He was hungry, and not for anything the hospital would serve him. One thing he hated, was to go without eating for too long, but if he had to, he would do it. In this case he need not starve himself in loo of eating the slop he might get here. A hint of mischief twinkled in his eyes, and he asked one more favor of his brother. “Since you are able to go home, and I am not. Would you be so kind, as to bring me something to eat from my own stores. You know I’m very sensitive about what I put into my body.” He was smiling politely at the nurse who just happened to walk in at that moment.               

___

“Dr. Sutcliffe,” without further ado, his coarse husky voice begins to retract the time as he spills his guts. His face still looks removed, as if he had been telling the tale in third-perspective, yet such bittersweetness and a tidal wave of  _ inextinguishable _ fire continues to affect him whole. As he does, his mind immediately hurtles over to the previous night when his piercing eyes, as equally mountainous and demanding it had been as now, had darted over the hectic hospital room; the nurses scattered about, completely encompassed in their given tasks. His eyes immediately zoomed over to the one with a bundle of patient files close to his chest as the other’s worrisome gaze had been fixated upon Hannibal’s exposed shoulders with potency of fresh blood, metallic and as red as his own brewing anger. Clearly, the doctor hadn’t been aware that Hannibal indeed had a twin and seemingly looked disatisfied by Nigel’s dominating presence. His agitated and highly intuitive brain immediately perceives that they weren’t simply colleagues; perhaps he had  _ designs _ on his brother as there was significant spark of electricity generated between the other’s gaze. Of course, Nigel knew the injury hadn’t severe and there wouldn’t be anything detrimental, yet he could feel the rush of blood immediately retracting within his core as if his extended fingers feel numbed by the frigid wind, burning him whole as he devises a scheme; he would patiently wait like a coiled serpent and eliminate the potential threat as his existence served as an invidious distinction. 

His  _ uncontrollable _ temper had only taken a bit of a prodding until he let it erupt over - many questions halts at his larynx. One of them being had they had the fucking fornication? Like he had watched the doctor’s life fleeting away from his fingertips, he could feel the surging pins and needles, a gush of bubbling blood hindering his breathing. After Hannibal had been wheeled away, Nigel’s distinctive drawl had poked Dr. Sutcliffe with his characteristic asperity. With equally  _ petulant _ wave of his hand as Nigel intentionally bumps shoulders, he had then caught the doctor’s name through the gleam of the silver name tag. He could feel the minute spasm travel down the muscles of his cheek in displease and immediately, he’s at the assigned task - with a plastered death-glare upon the closed door of Dr. Sutcliffe’s office, it only takes a brief scrutinization for him to come up with the course of his action. Despite all the fighting and conflicts over the course of the years, the  _ indisputable _ fact hits him straight across his face;  _ there would be no escapable judgment when it comes to stepping between him and his brother. _ Time seemed to stretch in eternal until the dispatched doctor comes back to retreat back into the comfy leather chair of the office. 

Pushing himself off from the waiting room with a renewed purpose, the mere thought of watching the spray of blood streaming down to soak through the other’s flesh has his veins throb with cloying adrenaline. His revolver tucked beneath the snug holster over the dachshund shirt, the quietude of the relatively empty corridors of deep setting night becomes much solace. Slipping into the ‘staff only’ office with the doctor’s gown with a pair of latex glove on his fingers, his oxfords barely makes nose as he comes across the steel door. As soon as he’s faced with the flabbergasted facade of Dr. Sutcliffe, it barely takes a few heartbeats for him to move like a grim reaper he is. A series of whoosh sends three bullets, drawing an  _ ascending _ diagonal line from the man’s side, to the core of his heart, then finally blows the man’s brains out. The distinct scent of gunpowder oozes and thickens as it does with the cacophonous commotion causing his breathing to be constricted. Blood gurgles over the tipped head of the long-expired doctor as he merely reduces into his victim, an offspring of deserved violence, the  _ desolateness _ and  _ bloodlust _ . 

“Made me fucking powerful, as I felt a staggering  _ dominance _ over my pulsating heartbeats as I witnessed myself behind the stillness of the orbs.” Same goes with when he aligns himself with the extension of his body. Understated even when most fevered, enraptured by fiery maelstrom as he sinks, hopelessly and without an ounce of resistance. Carnal pleasures and all things destructive, an intense rush of chemicals without having to go through withdrawals. It was surreal, otherworldly and somewhat of a forbidden image, continues to etch as he imagines both of them stripped naked in spirits and bodies. With the requests, he plucks himself away from the spectacle discharges of blood and fluids and looks down at his hand, which had been holding his twin’s arm in a death-grip, as it that had kept him grounded midst of his still lingering bouts of anger. “I still have to dump the fucking body, burn the damn evidence, so yeah, I could do that.” He blinks, just as the nurse decides to abruptly walk in just after his lengthy confession. The unfurled imagery continues to stick to his mind, yet a strange sense of tranquil solstice. “Can’t you just feed him crap through a fucking tube or something?” He perfunctorily banters before grabbing the keys to the Bentley.


	41. Chapter 41

_ Sunlight sparkles and dances against the copper tub where Mischa was taking her bath. Out in the garden, all three Lecter children are occupied with their own activities. Nigel is playing fetch with the dog who is supposed to be guarding the children. Hannibal took over the dog’s job, and is guarding Mischa, who was busy trying to swat at bubbles with her little star-shaped baby hands. The dog barks, when Nigel teases with the stick in his hand. Hannibal continues to create more bubbles, from the soapy water, all to amuse his charge. Mischa becomes distracted by a ripe eggplant in the garden. The deep purple color reflects in the little girl’s eyes, making her light blue ones appear darker. Bored with his game the dog wanders off to search the bushes, and Nigel trots back over to where his siblings remain. The younger twin lowers himself to kneel by the copper bathtub, dipping a finger in the water to splash Mischa playfully. A peal of laughter bursts forth from the toddler, and Hannibal can’t help smiling, while tsk tsking under his breath. It is one of the last remaining peaceful memories, that he has, and cherishes every second of it. The reminder stays locked safely within his memory palace walls, far away from the screams in the dark corridors that he can not go. The scene changes to another time and place.   _

_ Snow had fallen carefully on the ground outside, blanketing the marshy forest in white. Wind howling, and rattling the building. Through a crack in the wall he could see in his line of sight there was a spot that was stained red, a slash in the snow cover from the blood of a sacrificial little deer. There was hardly enough meat on the small animal to last more than a day or two. It wouldn’t be enough, there never was enough. Before long the ragged band of rogues came back through the barn door, searching. The ranks of children were small, and had thinned out over time. Huddled in the straw he clutched his little sister Mischa in his arms. Nigel, his twin, while the same age, was younger by only a mere hour; stayed pressed up against his side, giving the appearance of being conjoined. The band of men felt their arms, and legs, checking, but in the end they selected Mischa, leading her away. The children who left the barn, never returned. No matter how hard he held on to Mischa’s slender baby hand, she still slipped through his fingers. The barn door always came slamming shut on his arm, severing the link between brother and sister forever. Ignoring the pain in his now broken arm, nothing, not even his scream could drown out the sound of the axe.   _

In the hospital room, laying in the recovery bed, he was caught forever between the last moment he ever saw of his little sister, and the sound of the axe. Sweating down to the sheets, he can still hear Mischa call out for him. The axe making it’s horrific loop, and the sound of his own scream make up a cacophony of noise in his head. Like ghosts screaming, and claws scraping against a chalk board. The haunting images play over and over, a teacup doomed to fall on the floor, never gathering itself back up. He cannot stand it, the repeat of events half driving him mad. No matter how many equations he has written in his notebook will make time reverse, he cannot escape the nightmares. A voice in the hot darkness of his mind shatters the bleak abyss he finds himself in. Slowly he opens his eyes to find Nigel staring back at him. The golden amber orbs, with their hint of green look slightly concerned, an unlit cigarette hangs from his lips. “Good morning, Nigel.” The ache in his shoulder, reminds him that it was all a dream, and that he has more pressing matters at hand. His twin his carrying a few bags, and what he recognizes as his very own briefcase. A sweep of the room confirms that they are alone. Slowly sitting up, he mops sweat from his brow, from the nightmare of the past.  “Thank you for bringing me my things, it’s much appreciated.” Wringing his hands together, he fidgets impatiently, starting to get out of the blasted bed. So much time as been wasted already, he wants to start the hunt for Trevor as soon as possible. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”                   

___

His lashes flutter, sending out a glittering sparks of dusts beneath the serene blackness of the star-studded night as unblinking eyes continue to trail the outline of his older twin’s face. With Dr. Sutcliffe’s body already been packed and the office impeccably cleaned as if nothing sinister had swept through the ambiance, now his thought immediately resurgents with a profound recollection of the assailant’s face at the grocery store. He could feel his trachea being burnt with a lodged ball of fire with the solidifying thought. Though his subconscious swelled with the demise of the imminent threat, though feeling immensely powerful through the discrepancy of detached physical forms, such potent simultaneity that he could squeeze the heart and wring it until he’s the source of the pumping, placed at the very core of the valve becomes even more so beautiful in its ferocity and supremacy. He is the master composer upon their prospective secession of mortality, yet he still felt being shackled by the prison of his mind as a whirling vortex continues to zigzag through his heart. He was all too familiar with the discharging blood on the floor, it’s not the closing force upon the bereaved that leaves his victims in the air of helplessness; it’s the anticipating his vengeance. 

Hastily making back to their house, the first thing he does is to give an attempt at the easiest dish he could ever make - practically, the oven would do its most work as all he needed to do was to assemble the sliced and chopped ingredients and pour the beaten egg over it. With his benevolence towards all the uncooperating ingredients running thin as a slap dashed pile of ingredients accumulate inside the shallow baking pan, he curses intelligibly under his breaths as he butchers through potatoes that had been washed too hastily, Hannibal’s smoked bacon that had been cut too irregularly and in clumps and scallions that looked more like it had been gnawed than finely chopped. Setting the oven as the frittata begins to solidify and stomping his way towards Hannibal’s study, he retrieves the leather briefcase, perched neatly on the leather chair. Emptying the contents all over the spacious desk, he accesses the contents before cramming in a leather sketchbook, along with the pencil case and scalpel that seems to masquerade upon as the sweet torches of his twin’s brimming desire and wrath; two of the most prominent soulmates without the mask cracking at his feet. He could feel the luxuriant tresses of sunlight contour through the scattered sketches as he gathers them and puts in the portfolio - myriads of likenesses of him serving more than the memories, dreams and reflections. 

Setting the briefcase down close to his bedroom, he quickly showers, shaves, changes his clothes and leaves the snug holster, flinging it over the mattress along with the heap of his other clothes. Muttering much more loud curse as it seems to sizzle through his windpipe as he smells the distinctive burnt scent oozing out through the premise of the kitchen, he quickly retrieves his first-attempt at salvageable food before the smoke alarm goes off, as if he had been an embodiment of a limbo possessed by fire. The lukewarm water still clings onto his skin when he makes his way back to his bike with a bag full of tupperware containers, Hannibal’s briefcase and his own shoulder bag with a change of clothes just in case. The narrow corridors are still dark as the dimmed silence heavily sinks upon, and the anger in his eyes still is so tightly coiled that he doesn’t know what would happen if his springs were tipped. Endless shrieks become the march of the soldiers ready to go off and fight a war and it feels as if he’s being skewered with such devilish darkness, a haunting memory that they both cannot escape. The probability of their heart falling into such image of Mischa, their faded rose petals, too immaculate and pure to be taken. As if rooted and petrified, he stands like a guardian, more so like a gargoyle and watches his twin in distressing agony, before his words levitate him to the tangible reality. 

“I don’t see why I fucking couldn’t, we couldn’t ever pick our way out of the wretchedness, though she’s avenged. Our sorrow would never overshadow as I feel her soul hadn’t been cleansed.” Of course, he was referring to going back to their homeland and paying a proper homage. Yet, the forlornness of such unimaginable image becomes much of a burden as the sensation becomes more so like an unbearable tidal wave. He would drown himself in the confines of that blissful recollection and his heart aches, as it becomes blinded by elevated beats. “Do you still smell the crushed petals, rotting bones with blood and coldness, incense and tears and every accumulation of those fucking things.” His fingers trace his twin’s veins on the crook of his elbow, as if he had been searching for that fleeting scents, too potent as he holds shrine upon the chamber of his heart. His own memorial service that they hadn’t conducted.  


	42. Chapter 42

The sudden touch on the crook of his elbow, is a pleasant surprise. He heard the words, and it makes him shift uncomfortably on the edge of the bed. Looking up for a split second, he spares a glance at his brother reading the expressions on the other’s face. The change in topic is difficult one for him, he was doing his best to push it to the side for now. Nigel with his intuitiveness knew what haunted him, there was no doubt about it. They shared a lot of the same memories. “There are some places I can never return, but maybe someday I can show you where she is buried-” Saying her name aloud made his mouth dry instantly. So he choose not to say it. With some effort he stood up and faced his twin, the lingering touch still trailing along his skin. “I returned twice, once when I uncovered her remains, and killed one of the men responsible for consuming her-” He turned slightly to the side and touched a hand to his briefcase where he kept many of his supplies.”-and once again later, to give her a proper burial in the family plot, with a lovely headstone.” Swallowing trying to rid himself of the cotton mouth, he plucked a drawing from his briefcase, and held it up to look at. “I have not been back to our childhood home since, and to answer your question, yes… I do.” He did still smell the petals, the charred and burnt wood, he also saw many things in his nightmares, not every night just once in a while now. The older he became the less frequent the dreams haunted his sleep.

There was nothing much that Hannibal feared, one thing that he did fear was forgetting. He feared that maybe one day he would cease to have dreams about Mischa and the past, then she would be gone from him for the rest of his life. In his head he could still hear the screams, see the blood in the snow, and it was gone in a flash, blinking it away, as he came back to himself. It’s like turning a switch on in a dark room, all the lights come on. Turning to the side, he asked his twin. “Do you dream much, Nigel?” He was curious to know if his brother had sleepless nights, after killing. Did his little brother dream about maiming Dr. Sutcliffe, did it wake him up in the night, leaving him restless. “It’s fascinating how we spent so long apart, and yet, we still come back to this point and ended up just the same. You with your scars, and me with mine. Both of us free to live as we choose. And we both chose the same.” He was referring to how they both seem to have no trouble killing. If he guessed correctly, other than dreams of Mischa, Nigel didn’t have nightmares, nor did he dream about his victims either. He made his hospital bed neatly tucking in the sheets, and his shoulder twinged with pain, he ignored it. “Have you been taking care of your own injury? Since I have been indisposed. I haven’t been able to change your bandages, would you like me to do so now?”

Just as he was stretching his legs, and walking about his hospital room for a short respite. He had kept busy by dutifully checking, and changed Nigel’s own bandages when a nurse waltzed into the room alarmed. She demanded that he get back in bed until they said otherwise. His upper lip curled in a snarl for a fraction of a second, he was a doctor, he knew what was too much for his body. It would have been rude to argue with the nurse, so he did as he was told, and asked Nigel. “Would you be so kind, and wheel that tray over here.- Excellent.” He brought out his supplies and started right away on a new sketch. Without even lifting his eyes from the butcher paper, he inquired of his twin. “I smell the faint scent of Gouda cheese, and my homemade smoked bacon.” The pencil made scratching noises as it glided along the paper. “Did you attempt to cook for me, Nigel?” Looking up at last, he wore a faintly amused expression. Coyly he stated. “I fear for my kitchen.” He teased.  “I trust you left it just as you found it.” Steady as it were, he cleared the tray carefully packing away his things, back into the briefcase for the time being. Folding his hands in his lap he waited, face blank, and lips drawing in a bland line. “Ok let us see what you have made. I will determine whether or not it is edible.” He had a twinkle of mirth in his eyes when he said it. He was about 95% sure that anything his brother cooking would still be better than the hospital food.     

___

Understated even in his most fevered  _ zenith _ of emotions, his mind whirls a hurricane. with too much anger, sadness and explosive power. He would explode too often as he wasn’t free from the lulling combination that could only be agglomerated into nostalgia with yearning bittersweetness of their shared memories. The unspoken questions unfurls in his head and mostly, they’re ‘ _ what could’ve had beens _ ,’ if she was alive and physically with them as a complete unification. The silent  _ fluctuation _ had warmed him through the rippling motions, along with the scalding heat pushing through the back of his eyes, accentuating his exhaustiveness. It would get worse until it doesn’t; until the charred edges widened along with the gaping hole in his chest. His own straightened composure would sway like a flickering light upon the obsidian darkness. Almost entirely filled with void as he lets one word linger against his still warm lips. In hushed tones as he regards the world with half-shut gaze, his drawn, deep ridges of his eyebrows pinch slowly, as he suppresses the scalding embers behind the diaphanous orbs. “You would really do that,” a visible and audible swallow. Her name becomes the forbidden requiem itself, as it signified the inhumanity of human beings and it burns and encompasses his fundamental nature to be inclined with equal violence and aggression. “Show me where  _ Mischa’s _ buried.” He doesn’t have to visualize too hard to see such animosity, tender bones, broken and shattered as molecules dipped in carbon and dust. Icarus slain even before given the chance to soar towards the sky. Even when his whole world had been crumbling apart through his pricking eyes, shrinking heart and constricting lungs, he would sought to help Mischa’s wings to take her own flight, even when he knows when he’s fighting a losing battle as the wretched memory conquered over his existence. 

Intoxicating within the bubbling heat as his skin expands with such incandescent light of the exploding bomb, he watches Hannibal with such an encompassing gaze. As he himself would continually _grow_ and _spread_ , create more life and feeding others’ energy by nullifying their life. As long as he fed the his own addictions and make that swell into something greater and _transcendent_. Sometimes, the world required a certain bit of insanity to reach greatness. He was sure Hannibal did the same thing. “Such fucking resilient thing, the rose. I could still scent her shed blood as if they had been blossoming petals,” and such contradictory thing the memory is - he didn’t particularly fathom nor let himself get affected by his kills. But the associations were equally resilient. He wouldn’t dream of Mischa when he had another profound objective to delve into. “The bandage was the last fucking thing on my mind as you very well know the association it brings. I didn’t get a fucking wink last night,” at least solemn memories of Mischa became the lotus flower midst all thingsdesolate, that he would forever clutch onto as he would continue to reborn and rise tall like the star - to shimmer and shine. He wasn’t going to take a plunge where he could still feel the cold-seeped walls pressing against his side, without Hannibal to help him subside the unchecked emotion that would roll around his heart as his view engulfed with wide array of crimsons. “You know what a kill does for me, it’s all dualistic. When the rush of adrenaline abates, that’s when I think about how she met her demise.” Even when his own corporeality had died quietly upon the immeasurable stretch of distance like the aforementioned star in his dreams, still, he would feel her presence like the tears of the soul. Like the sailors relying solely upon the coordinated map of the celestial bodies, he is _nothing_ without that hint of light as his fingers touches upon the sky, as it alights the path he journeys. 

He could feel the clumped fibers of his muscles swell and expand beneath the plastered bandages. The tight pull as the stitches begin to heal, the lingering pain had been overwhelmed by his wandering thoughts. His own glowing gaze becomes penetrative, as if he had been telling his twin to sit his damn ass down or he’d hurl him down for medical professionals are their worst doctors for themselves. With more coppery glow tinged upon the stretched expanse of the small hills and valleys, he lets out a sigh of relief with an air of his true nature of the emotions that had provoked in him unfurls when Hannibal decides to comply. Pushing the bags aside to make room for himself, he watches the flesh wound slowly healing as the parted skin had pinched like a still-warm candle stub as it emits such a warm glow. And he is reminded of the resounding warmth upon the bone-chilling grounds of the castle, where Death had claimed their youngest. It’s like looking deep into the heart of the new flame, alit in the core of his heart, supposedly burning off the smell of death as its edges flickered. While Hannibal’s occupied with his drawing equipments, his hands busy themselves to open all the tupperware containers to present his most successful attempt by date. “I didn’t even know what kind of fucking cheese it was nor if it’s all the way cooked through inside,” he had scraped away burnt edges as best as he could, but as everything  _ amplifies _ as Hannibal seems to always have a microphone in front of his damned canine nose, he would catch up on anything and everything. “You and your damn bloody nose, yes, I made a fucking attempt at making something consumable.” As long as there weren’t visible egg shells and uncooked meat, he was partial to his own cooking of being savory and piquant. Ignoring the question about the kitchen’s state, he halves the frittata and thrusts his arm towards Hannibal with the container, as his own half-moon pendulously hangs by the fork. “If I fucking say so myself, I’ve outdone myself this time.”

 


	43. Chapter 43

Gracefully he takes the container from his twin, and bobs his head in polite thanks. “Thank you, Nigel.” Placing the dish directly in front of himself on the tray, he breaths in deeply taking in the scent of ingredients. He could smell the potatoes, egg, Gouda cheese, and smoked bacon. The corner of his mouth twitched almost smirking. He knew in his pantry where he kept the smoked bacon, right near by it is the Gouda cheese clearly in plain sight. “Well my dear, when we go home, I shall give you the grand tour of my pantry-” Out of thin air, he produced a handkerchief and tucked it neatly into his lap. “That way you will know where everything thing is.” At least knowing where all the ingredients are, would help Nigel pick and choose what he would like to make. Instead of just grabbing the first thing in front of his face… So typical of Nigel. His fingers idly touched the resting fork on his tray, subconsciously turning it to a 90 degree angle to the plastic container holding his portion of food. It was a habit, he started when he was just a small child, and he wasn’t about to stop doing it now in his early 40’s. At last he picked up his fork, and used it as an instrument to examine the dish, as if he were dissecting a dead body. He checked it for freshness, being overcooked, or over-seasoned. “Ah, you made me a Frittata, very good.” He could tell instantly it was slightly overcooked, but it was not over-seasoned. Pushing the fork around, and lifting a small forkful up to eye level he looked at it closely.

“The potatoes are a hair over done, and adding salt to the eggs before cooking them, makes them watery.” He waved the forkful carefully in front of his nose, as if he were smelling a glass of wine. “Next time a trick to a great Frittata is to cook off all of the moisture on the filling ingredients first, in a pan, frying them quickly.” He could sense Nigel’s temper steadily reaching boiling point in just a few seconds. A vein on his forehead was starting to pop. ”As it were, despite all of that. It isn’t over seasoned, and I see no egg shells.” Cheerfully he ate the morsel on his fork, getting a feel for the flavors. ”Over all you did very well, but there is always room for improvement.” He looked up from his food happily then back down at his container, continuing to eat. It wasn’t the best Frittata he ever had, but it was the effort that counts. He would personally see to it that the next dish that Nigel prepared, would be extraordinary, something he could really be proud of. It excited him to be able to teach his twin more in the kitchen, even more so knowing that his brother knew about his dirty little secret. “When we go home, I shall teach you some tricks, and tools of the trade. Soon you will be cooking wonderfully.” Using his handkerchief he dabbed at the corner of his mouth, and placed it back in his lap. He glanced up from eating to watch Nigel’s face, reading him. He could tell that his twin was no longer angry, and that pleased him.

As soon as they finished their meal a new nurse walked in checking a clipboard. Like a snake he watched her every movement, eyes following her around the room. All of the nurses appeared to be taking turns coming into his room, just to get a glimpse of the twins, their looks were striking. He knew that they were attractive, but garnering this amount of attention was rather obscene. Mischievously, he was making plans to tease the next nurse to come flouncing into the room. When the current one left at last, he turned his head like a hawk, and spoke to Nigel. “It appears, we have caught the eye of the nurses. It must be hard for them to do their jobs, when they are busy twittering like a bunch of birds in a cage.” He had continued to draw on his butcher paper. What started out as just a plain sketch of his twin, now was turning into a full blown self portrait, of himself, and Nigel. The icing on the cake was that, they were both nude, posing like the famed twins of Roman lore; Romulus and Remus. He took great care to use as much detail as he could, and the drawing was their very likeness. It would take a blind person to not see that it was the twins done beautifully in charcoal. He used the pinky on his main hand as a smudger, focusing on the shading. Once he put the finishing touches on his work of art, he looked up, at the door opened, and in ushered the next nurse. The snake was coiled, and ready to strike. Eyes glinting, his face twisted in a smile. “Good evening, Miss.”

The first thing out of the young ladies, mouth was a surprise. “Good news, Mr Lecter, you’ll be going home tomorrow.” She told them.

“It’s Doctor Lecter.” Hannibal replied. 

___

With careless scrutinization of his own cooking, he sinks his teeth deep into the middle, taking a big morsel out in a half-moon shape. Through Hannibal’s usual cruel and crooked mouth, which is capable and exceptionally talented to utter words of comfort and downright menacing without his own characteristic brew of a big mess of a hurricane, he feels his pendulous mood beginning to be jeopardized. Through the words of thrumming bass and electric melody, there were profound affection, yet he can’t seem to tear his own brand of observant and conspicuously skeptical gaze at his brother. When he was free form poems and would let details slide as long as they were convenient and functional, Hannibal had a penchant for scrutinizing every little detail, down to the hair on his neck and every syntax and elements in a scholastic essay. Even when he would gambol around with their sister in the woods, Hannibal’s keen amalgamation of sensory neurons seemed to emulate such given visual to make it transcend beyond the given atmosphere. It was something that he fundamentally had also, yet not enough to surpass his older twin’s. Memories worked the same way, never just an idea or a concept; it was as real as a feeling he would carry inside of him for the rest of his life. More than all three of them holding hands and sitting together, and his only rationale is for him to be an indispensable and irreplaceable vessel upon the world in obstinacy. He would pay his utmost allegiance to the shared blood alone. His indistinguishable ember bear to meet Hannibal’s maroon in splitting, endless beam and that’s when his anger begins to leak over his clenched jaw, a slight hint of strangled noise erupting from him where redamancy taints with battle rage. “I’m more than fucking sure you would hit every goddamn nook and cranny you have missed from the previous grand tour.” With a visible swallow and feeling his pulse by his forehead, he blinks once and crosses his legs over the ledge of the bed.   

With the damned exceptional nose of a well-bred canine, the way his brother smells through all the layers of the ingredients continues to stir the bed of coal. He should be used to it by now, but after years of separation and having been flooded with like-minded people, that familiarity had still failed to reclaimed to be something acceptable. Both a delusional and intoxicating concept for him for sure. A blink as he could feel the heat press against his epidermal, all hell-bent before he is aware of the steady rhythm of his pulsing beat rise and press against his throat like balls of fire. He hones his mind to the mere repeated actions of him wolfing down, almost masticating the flavors, longer than he usually does. After finishing the consumption of his own portion, the anger suppresses with the spread of last surge of heat. At least his body wouldn’t be ever eternal and even he couldn’t be forever restrained with such a primal rawness. “As always with life,” with the air of burnt pyre, he huffs out as a whirl of noise within his cranium becomes a cacophonous spillage as he remains ponderous. “And with you it’s such a fucking  _ mystery _ and pain. Above all the fucking things, it’s a little bit of death and pain. Endless and headlong as I  _ tolerate _ .” Actually, those dichotomy of two words doesn’t sound too bad, as he would always opt for adventure with peril than his life being monotonous. 

He was sure, Hannibal’s continued attentiveness becomes the most scrumptious arsenal he has along with such ability as a psychiatrist to slip into his own stacked memories. And his fingers, so eager to bend to whatever song is playing in his head and his broad chest, as it imperceptibly rises and falls against the hospital gown. Even before slipping into Dr. Sutcliffe’s office to perform his wicked deed, he had noticed obvious promiscuous gazes from the nurses, especially the ones who seemed to be on the night rotation, who he figured would be the most sexually active and youngest of them all. Feigning disinterest, his pale brows dramatically quirk and raise as he wipes his lips against the end of his sleeves. “No fucking kidding, who could ever resist not one, but two individuals with bottomless stare and riveting exoticism?” Such familiar memory again floods within his consciousness as such white noise held so much significance to link both of the siblings together, like an irreplaceable piece of puzzle. A dramatic smirk etches through, lifting his prominent cheekbones even further. _ So that clouds do gather, _ and the nurse’s words bring his lips to curl up even further and his smile becomes more crooked. His eyes becoming more enliven with sex and slightest bit of violence. 

“Now that has been well and truly established,” a shrug as his unblinking gaze seems to penetrate through the nurse who is clearly dazed and flustered by Hannibal’s remark. “Mr. Lecter is  _ yours fucking truly _ , Miss…? Wouldn’t you not want both of us to go home, is that it? Hannibal Lecter had been a reputable surgeon, you should’ve known who this was but I don’t fucking blame you.”


	44. Chapter 44

After hearing the good news, the rest of the stay in the hospital went very quickly. Hannibal’s spirits were at an all time high. He was glad to being going home, and in his personal opinion, not soon enough. That night he made sure Nigel left with a list for the outfit he would like to wear. He was relying on his twin to bring with in the morning. He had selected a very flamboyant suit, his black pinstripe paired with the aubergine colored silk shirt. Matching tie, and the stripe on the suit as well was that same deep purple. It was also Mischa’s favorite color. He would never forget it, and he was in the mood for wearing her color. The next day when Nigel arrived, he welcomed the sight, he was over-eager to be on their way home. Nigel was never a morning person, so he growl a simple greeting, at the others cheerful one. He could forgive his twin, because he had come to expect that sort of gruffness from Nigel. It was just who his brother was, and he accepted that. The suit he arrived in was trashed, ruined, by the bullet entry, and blood. It was fine with him, it gave him an excuse to have a fitting done for a brand new suit. Nigel grudgingly helped him get dressed while there were no nurses around. They just got underfoot, and in the way. They were always gawking. When he was down to his boxer briefs, for once Nigel was doing the staring, he could feel his twin’s gaze on him like a warm summer breeze.

He wasn’t surprised when his brother pressed himself slightly too close, and growled in his ear about wanting to fuck him so hard when they returned home. A small shiver of excitement ran through his body, and he turned only his head to stare back. With his eyebrow raised, to look squarely at Nigel. “Has my artwork, given you ideas? Or is the waiting starting to get to you?” With a small gesture, he motioned to the drawing next to where he stood. It lay still on the tray, where he had finished it. He couldn’t help teasing Nigel, he knew that his brother had no patience for anything, and he certainly did not like to wait. Suddenly Nigel lashed out, his temper rising, his twin used his thumb, and he smudged the endowment on the portrait that was supposed to be Hannibal. Tut tutting under his breath Hannibal pursed his lips together. “Nigel, that was very rude.” The only reply he got was that Nigel didn’t want the nurses looking at his ‘cock’. It perturbed him that Nigel would act so childishly when things weren’t going his way. With a sigh, he let his own temper die down, he let it go. Nigel was the only person who could get away with that sort of behavior around him. Instead he scolded his brother about using such foul words. “Must you always use such language, My Dear?”

Once he was dressed he looked at himself in the mirror. He had opted to leave the suit jacket off, he wore his aubergine colored silk shirt proudly, but with his arm in a sling he felt it took away from the overall image. The doctors had half-halfheartedly given him instructions to rest, and to not over do himself. They didn’t bother to remind him what bandages needed changing and when. Most of the doctors knew Hannibal by name, having worked together at some point. With his things packed, he was ready to leave. He would like to put this place as far behind him as he could. He didn’t like to be confined, and it made him feel like a trapped animal. Nigel carried his things, and his briefcase. On his good arm was draped his suit jacket, and in his hand he carried the art he had done of the twins. He stopped at the nurses station to check out, and saw a whole group gathered around to watch. His snakelike gaze took everything in, and with a sinister smile he announced. “It’s been a pleasure ladies and gentlemen, but my time here is at an end. Though I suspect it’s been more your pleasure than mine.” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Nigel flirting with one of the pretty nurses, and so he waltzed over, leaning in close to his brother. ”We have to go, home is waiting for us…” His head turned ever so slightly to the side like a snake surveying it’s prey. He was much too close, invading Nigel’s personal space, but he didn’t care. Just before they turned to leave finally, Hannibal laid the nude portrait of the twins on the desk for the nurses. “A small memento to remember us by.” At that he gave the aw-struck nurses a little finger wave, and ushered Nigel out of the hospital wing, with a wink. 

___

The rest of the afternoon flies with flying colors, as he had been feeling like a stone statue displayed in the museum; something about him that was very solid, uninviting as he had an air of contumaciousness, yet his composure had been strong and almost eternal. There was no doubt that he was beautiful to look at; not in a conventional means, but with a bit of exoticism and beastly savageness. Unpolished, but still riveting to look at. With his crooked smile like a flickering neon sign cutting through the obsidian darkness and with so many secrets hidden within those unfathomable hazel, his subconscious still held onto the unraveled thought of Mischa as it tangled up in his threads. Understated even in his most fevered zenith of emotions, his mind whirls a hurricane. With too much anger, sadness and explosive power, as he would explode too often as he wasn’t free from the lulling combination that could only be agglomerated into nostalgia with yearning bittersweetness of their shared memories. The unspoken questions unfurl in his head and mostly, they’re ‘what could’ve had beens,’ if she was alive and physically with them as a complete unification. The silent fluctuation had warmed him through the rippling motions, along with the scalding heat pushing through the back of his eyes, accentuating his exhaustiveness. It would get worse until it doesn’t; until the charred edges widened along with the gaping hole in his chest. Thinking Hannibal had already fallen asleep as he gathers all the bags, his usual guttural voice cuts through the dimmed darkness. “I know you’ve fucking fucked with that fucking doctor and now I wonder if you’d ever let anyone else do those things to you, like the fucking instance down in the basement,” a splayed hand on his twin’s shoulder before he pivots around. “I’m so going to fuck your brains out when you get out of here tomorrow.” Having stayed up the night before and tiredness finally claiming him, he has no choice but to grouchily accept Hannibal’s request as he stuffed all the garments in a small carry-on bag before slipping into a coma-like sleep. 

With an air stale blood, fresh smoke and heavy sleep still clinging onto the pillow crease and his unkempt bedhead, Nigel sports a resemblance and ambiance of recently-fucked fuckboy as he enters the private hospital room. With penetrating gaze hovering over the planes and contours of Hannibal’s muscles and coppery skin resembling his own, he reconfirms his declaration from the previous night as he feels Hannibal’s pulse against the side of his stubbled cheek. Even when his form didn’t brim with the resounding arousal and desire to consume his twin whole, the silent language they spoke through coalescing breaths and intermingled limbs did much more than the spoken words themselves. The time itself seems to halt as if he’s plummeted into another dimension; he didn’t need the drawing to get into the mood of things, but each caressing stroke of the charcoal dust metamorphoses their flesh to becoming the source of the unending reel, where he’s entranced and fettered to be locked within that invisible mold. “I don’t need the fucking drawing to instill or corroborate what I feel -” Already having a good idea what his older twin would do with the artwork, he carries himself like a whirlwind; none of the movements wasted and with a single purpose, to smudge Hannibal’s crotch area so the gushing nurses wouldn’t be able to look at his junk. “Whatever, I don’t fucking want them to masterbate with two bloody cocks almost touching each other in a docking position,” he declares, “Just you can’t do a damned fuck about being flashy and fidgety.” 

With such bland face as he juggles all the bags around the fingers, he waddles along the corridor with his shirt half-open in the front. Brooding the whole distance as he accepts that familiar feeling; the last thought seemed to have lingered and his dream had caused him the most painful morning wood he had ever sported. It wasn’t quite an unbridled salaciousness that had flashed through the center of his hazel, yet it was still and intense as gradually intensifying flame that seem to draw endless ripples etched through the warming air. The air around him grows even more sultry and stuffier than usual - it could be the tension between his taut strands of muscles or what’s about to come. He doesn’t even have to imagine as his calloused fingers sprint through the expanse of Hannibal’s flesh, freeing himself off from the obstructing fabric that’ll get him to his sensory ecstasy. “Wouldn’t you say love is loving every fucking thing your ‘beloved’ has ever been and all ‘one’ ever will be?” He was sure Hannibal could appreciate this sentiment as well, as they tolerated so many things they wouldn’t simply stretch, because they had been tied by blood and something entirely more. When Hannibal breaches, he could literally scent a bit of blood and antiseptic oozing from the tended wound beneath the bandages. “All and fucking everything, even though it sounds goddamn cliché.”

“I’m gonna fuck you for a few yours, so hopefully you’ve gotten a nice, fucking satisfying rest.” His smirk-plastered facade stretching wider than the early morning rays of light creeping through the entrance, he nudges against Hannibal and points to his Multistrada 1200. “Ready for a damn fucking ride?” Piling the bags inside the storage compartment, he pinches Hannibal’s ass and crams the other’s head into his own helmet. “If we were to engage in such wholly devoted fuck, I would want your pretty head well kept and protected.”


	45. Chapter 45

The bike ride was uncomfortable on his injured shoulder, but not unpleasant.  It was exhilarating to ride on a motorcycle again after so long. With one hand he held on to Nigel, hand resting just under his twin’s rib cage. He was wearing Nigel’s own helmet, and his brother was driving over the speed limit. He hadn’t expected anything less. The ride was a short one, since his home was very close to the Johns Hopkins medical center. When the bike stopped in front of the house the engine instantly started to tick as it cooled off. Hopping off the back gracefully he removed his helmet, in one swift motion. He had a friendly smile plastered to his face, and he was in a very good mood. “Do you remember riding around Paris on motorcycles, Nigel?” He reminisced, as Nigel started pulling things out of saddlebags. Carefully he took his briefcase in his good hand. “We went every where on those bikes. I’ll admit, I do miss it, from time to time.” Licking a lip and turning quickly away, he walked briskly, bouncing up the front steps, and jingled the keys in his gloved hand. He unlocked the front door, and slipped into the vestibule leaving the door ajar for Nigel. With his eyes closed he walked through into the foyer, and into the dining room. He could walk around the whole house with his eyes closed and not bump into a single thing. He had the house mapped out in his memory palace rendered in perfect detail. Pushing the double doors in the dining room open, he wandered into the hall, and pad up the stairs cheerfully.

In the master bedroom, he set his briefcase down on the ottoman, turning it at a 90 degree angle. He then started to shrug out of his coat. He didn’t know what he wanted more, in that moment. To sleep or make something to eat. He had hardly done either while in the hospital. Only sleeping an hour or two at a time, and eating as little as possible. He could hear movement on the stairs and could tell instantly that it was Nigel. His twin had his own distinct way of moving. He could be graceful when he chose, but his default was loud, and often stomping. Moving back towards the doorway he stood and watched as his twin peaked the top of the stair. “Your footfalls are akin to a herd of crippled sheep, in the process of trampling down a fence.” His face was unreadable, and the look he received in returned was scathing, like a slap of hot air from a volcanic vent. With a slow blink, and an even slower jerk of his head, he beckoned Nigel into his room. “Be a dear, and help me out of my coat. I will do the rest myself.” Remaining silent the rest of the time, he folded his coat over neatly, and rest that on the ottoman as well. He moved deeper into the room, and Nigel followed him like a shadow into the walk-in closet. Standing in front of the floor to ceiling mirror, he started to undress, aware the his twin watched his every movement. The more clothing he removed, the tension in the room rose to unprecedented levels. He didn’t look at or meet his brother’s gaze, until he was down to just boxers, and his slacks.

In slow motion, he lifted his gaze in the mirror and intently he watched his shadow’s reflection. The mirror image of Nigel and him locked eyes, and he stared at his twin the whole time he unzipped his pants. He stepped out of them one leg at a time, and folded them over his arm. Not once did he look away from the man in the mirror. The mirror appeared to crack down the middle, and he divided from himself, skin bleeding to black. The inky black skin, losing signs of life, ribs standing out in stark relief, and sprouting horns. He turned his head a little to the side like a cat. His facial expression never changed. He watched Nigel for a sign.  **_Do you see me, Nigel? The real me… What I have become._ ** He blinked once, and everything was back to normal. The mirror perfect and whole, and he was in just one body, his own. He swallowed hard, throat clicking, and took a deep breath through his nose. It was almost as if the air in the room had been sucked out for an instant. His pulse was still and calm, he stepped out of his silky black boxer briefs, and put them in the hamper. He looked at his bandaged shoulder in the mirror examining it. More scars, his collection was growing. He closed his eyes for a half a breath, and when he opened them, Nigel was hovering over him. Looming and hungry, he could taste his brother’s need, like a drop of crisp refreshing wine on his tongue. The acidity making him salivate, wanting more, an aperitif. It stimulated his appetite and he wanted more, always more… 

___

The bike ride makes his chest ache, as his lungs feel like they were being choked out of the air, as well as the precious memories of riding through Paris with the same maverick antics. They leeched out of his heart and he wants to either rip the memories out so it could unfold, instead of being a tangled mess full of nostalgia and the instilled sense of powerfulness. His liberated spirits, transpired as the outstretched wings, and in turn, they manifest into sweeping embers as his mind finds both solace and thrill in his strident mind, soon, his retaliation would come in order as he would sink into onslaught of emotions; he wasn’t going to succumb to his logicality. Like a promised tides repeatedly kissing over the shoreline as it embraces the grains of sand, the blood would resurgent the coiled emotion buried within the bed of coal. Now embedded with the idea of crashing into his twin like jagged waves upon the rock formations, he recalls numerous times of riding in circles, aimlessly speeding through on his secondhand cafe rider they both had ridden in their youth. Goosebumps rise on his forearms, on his back as he hurries to shelter beneath the lengthening streaks of the city lights, his form projecting a tunnel-vision as his form squats down lower, leaning into Hannibal’s touch. As numerous streaks bounce and ricochet off the contours of his profile, such mountainous gaze that used to bear the wintry wonderland presented upon him manifests in neon colors, the same world transcribed into another world, yet he stops aching as the fat tire emits the scent so familiar as he pulls to their driveway. Sometimes, the midnight city offered more than virulent fire it offered within their lionhearted forms and the enticement of the stretched view. “I was just thinking about that, actually,” biting his lower lip in yearning desire, the particular memory over twenty years ago and this painfully tangible one, as two bleed and blend together like watercolors running on the page and his heart sinks a little. 

It was grieving and slightly haunting that the previous memories seem to break the gloomy walls closing in. Along with the tenacious cling of despondency over Mischa as the jagged slivers and splinters, malleable bones still seems to etch through and swell in the most tender spot of his chest. As he transpires into such an emotional turmoil, he’s also equally faced with the radiant warmth, a ghost of Hannibal pressed to his back. Every breath, brush of their skin seemed to have become the electricity pumping through them and he feels the sparks pulsating through his bones as if bellowing their existence out, the innocence pulse of life he long forgot until now. Their heart’s content lies coordinates, and even after exploring them so many times in whole, there still are uncharted territories to be claimed. With both anger and frustration tightly coiled beneath his hazel, his exacerbation grows staggering as his lips straighten in a grim line. Throwing his old, soiled clothes and his button-up into the hamper in his room, he briskly passes and rounds the corner as Hannibal summons him, following close and silent like wafting air. Pain is the fleeting comfort he had always faced with his whole life and this fluttering aura continues to fuel him with the power of exacting a mountain falling into a valley. Just another push would tumble the vehemence of such image down in an avalanche and then, he himself couldn’t even halt his engulfed heart as the power would reach its staggering proportions. His mind would snap, his hazel would pore into the prime subject of his yearning, and he’s intoxicating, dying to claim him as such hurricane embodies his reality. 

His heart wickedly sings as his hand collides upon Hannibal’s chest, as his own naked torso plasters over the dramatic curve of his twin’s side. “I’ve fucking held my tongue, coiled myself enough to be patient. My benevolence is ticking and it’d been ran out.” Their farewell hadn’t been lovers waving sympathetic hands; with their scars and essence, thickening and coagulating until now. Lips pressed close to Hannibal’s pulse and the weight of his words heavily hanging in the air in stupefaction, and such clash becomes his maddening cacophony of zealous thrum of frantic beats and rippling serenade upon his veins. Curving his fingers around the back of Hannibal’s shoulder blade, he rams his twin against the opposite wall and lets that fire ignite. As if he had been aggravated with jabs and hooks, ir becomes an absolute, incomprehensible attraction. Even when Nigel’s form didn’t brim with the resounding arousal and desire to consume his twin whole, the silent language they spoke through coalescing breaths and intermingled limbs did much more than the penetrative act itself. His whole body seems to brim, muscles pull and stretching as a sense of power spurs him on even more. Lips clamped against the base of the other’s neck, his firm, forceful hands roaming over the flat planes of the abdomen. His fuzzy head whirls with spurting steam and he finds himself rocking with a steady, purposeful momentum. His free hand tugging, scratching Hannibal’s scalp as such confliction eggs on his own muscles’ rhythmic flutter. 


	46. Chapter 46

His breath stalls in his lungs for a moment. He becomes as still as a statue, and almost as lifeless. His expression is unreadable, closed off, and alien. He is calculating, and has determined the outcome of this scenario. Part of him is disappointed, another curious, but mostly he is full of anticipation.  Suddenly he is breathing again, like the play button pressed on a recording device. He is calm, and relaxed his good arm hanging at his side, the injured, he has his arm bent at the elbow. On the injured side, his right side, he has his hand resting flat on his stomach. His head is cast downward looking off to the left, his gaze lifts to the mirror to watch Nigel. His twin was pressed close, the other’s hand on his chest, body conformed to his left side. When his brother purrs in his ear, he closes his eyes, a minuscule smirk stretches his lips for a moment. For the first time in a good while, he can hear his own pulse in his ears. His heart beats a little faster, but not out of fear or worry. It’s excitement, the sort of a joy one gets from chasing a challenging prey. The curl of his twin’s hand around his shoulder blade stings, then he is off balance, being shoved into the wall. Hannibal catches himself with his good arm so his head did not smack into the surface. Like an owl, he turns his head to stare at Nigel. His pupils dilate, taking in the sight. His brother is magnificent when he is charged with anger and power, he would like to sip on that energy like a glass of wine.

He enjoyed reading people’s faces like others enjoyed reading a good book. His twin was one of his favorite faces to read, as much as it was like his own, it never shared the same emotions, nor did it display the same expressions. Nigel wasn’t always easy to read, but to him that made it half the fun, his twin always left him second guessing. Nigel was chaos, and unpredictable. He could always rely on his twin to do something unexpected. Hannibal did not like predictability, he found it banal. The look his twin was giving him was one of lust, and pure raw desire, the need to consume. “Eat or be Eaten? I feel the tinge of irony, as I have so long been the one doing the eating. Are you going to artfully arrange me in a tasteful dish?” He was asking out of curiosity, but teasing as well. He could not resist, even when he was not in a position of power, he didn’t fear Nigel would do him grave harm. Bruised and beaten, he expected it. It was a turn on for him. With his shoulder injured he knew that his chance of besting Nigel physically were very slim. That was ok with him, it was one of those moments when he gladly passed the balance of power over to his twin. Safely within their home, in his closet, away from the world, he could let go, and allow Nigel to take control of the situation. Mouth parted, he watches as his brother advances on him, he doesn’t flinch, shy away, or recoil, he welcomes the touch with open arms.  

With Nigel’s lips clamped to the side of his neck, Hannibal licks his own greedily. He can feel the press of teeth, and the bruise forming underneath the seal of his brother’s mouth. Swallowing hard, he tracks their mingling, writhing bodies in the mirror. The press of skin, the same similar bodies, with their different markings, two bandages. Both of them are erect, it isn’t until Nigel’s hands start their clawing and forceful exploration does the bandage on Hannibal’s shoulder start to seep dark red blood. He ignores it, his eyes are fixated on his twin’s roaming freely over his abdomen. Lips curl, in a half smile, half snarl, his good arm snaking around his brother’s narrow waist. Affectionately, he bumps his nose against Nigel’s cheek, breathing in the scent that is uniquely his. His delicate blonde lashes flutter, like moth wings against his twin’s skin. His eyes droop, heavy lidded, as he stares down the long line of Nigel’s body. There is no gap between where they touch, skin adhered to skin. They stick together like they were meant to be that way. They did share a womb after all. Hannibal’s hand dips down Nigel’s lower back, and he rests his fingers lightly against the spinal column, just above his tailbone. It was one of his favorite places, on his twin. He had fond memories, from long ago, when they shared their apartment in Paris. He used to press Nigel down into the mattress, and rut against that very spot. The reminder, made him grin wickedly. The fingers carding through his hair, and raking against his scalp bring him back to the present. 

___

His accelerated heartbeat devours him in whole as the bubbling fire within him grows endless and non-tiring like an inferno of a forest fire. It dries every inch of his vein to mimic the fissuring crack upon sun-dried earth. His form, already having rolled within the embodiment of emerging sunrise, the retained sunrays, his entirety would ache as bright as the afternoon sun as the lingering imperative continues to agglomerate. The walls seems to echo with building waves, with their fluttering silhouettes merging against the backdrop of the wavering garments; Hannibal’s repository of his intoxicating scents rain upon him; both in its  _ familiarity _ and its  _ inevitability _ . The sound of their pressed hearts egging him to unfurl in his strength, instead of retaining the reminders of their fragile nature of life. In their  _ silent _ conversation, scattering and looping through their bones as golden hues of his skin become electric, he sees ecstatic reds and oranges through the flushed skin, as the vividity of monstrous momentum. _ Where the hunter becomes the hunted, and vice versa _ , and they can wear those veils effortlessly even when they had traipsed without each other’s presence.  _ Exhilarating, shivery and so true. _ Pain and suffering are always inevitable and remains inseparable, the thin line between being gentle, effacing caress to becoming so rough, scratching itself raw as the real escape is near. 

Hoping to penetrate through Hannibal’s core as his fingers crawl beneath where the heart bleeds, the raw edges of the fresh stitch closes around his palm, along with the intensifying scents of blood. Whirling blood within his veins become the tumbled words, fuzzing his senses as he lapses into the language of the physicality. The wildness in his eyes become even indecipherable to him, as prospect of hunger clouds his vision. “At your own fucking will, it might do you good to descend down a step to perceive that perspective you’re so unfamiliar with.  _ An absolute, incomprehensible attraction.”  _ He could become the merciless, victorious beast savoring the sliver of weakness in his twin, yet he would be quick, magnanimous with swishing limbs and slashing fingers as the simple act begins to separate from its two-dimensionality into 3D; not anymore a blank state of the empty plane. His firm hand would become the stark pencil line, beginning its quick, swiping journey as nails trace as how Hannibal would with his pencil, but with his fundamental essence. Down his twin’s temple, protruded cheekbone, around the sensual bump of jaw and chin as he bears down so hard. Without a single heartbeat of hesitation, he closes his arm and flexes around Hannibal’s strong neck like a fishhook and he’s locked in rhapsodic magnificence as the expanse of his skin becomes an embodiment of a hot, reddish gold spreading out all over the ark of the sky. His breaths drifting all over like the heat of the premature summer upon Hannibal’s torso. 

Instinctively, as the edge of the bandage grows fuzzily hot against his fingertips, he’s quick to savor the fresh drop of crimson, just forming beneath where he had ripped it off. It feels like spilled booze, the concentrated nectar which contained their hearts and souls and flesh as the scent pierces through him in his heart’s desire. “If I ever fucking consumed you, it would be your blood that would imitate our essentiality. Same fucking DNA, watching the jutted vein throbbing and breathing out. It’s both meditative and primal. Glistening like honey, with sweet undertones.” Watching the blood trace and contour around the web of his thumb and index and well aware of the tip of Hannibal’s nose finding the curves and intermittently pulsating beat that threatens to push through his diaphragm, his shoulder shifts as he pins Hannibal beneath him. Licking the finger and searching for the fleeting snapshots of Hannibal’s delicate, yet delicious responses, he makes a swift motion, a dramatic arch to hurl the last article of his clothing away as his aching erection presses against the same spot where his twin’s hand makes a gossamer touch. Staring into Hannibal’s obvious arousal that reflects his own, lips curl into a devious smirk as he looks upon his twin in both muted fascination and as a calm before the storm, as the thick head of his length begins to stimulate further against the depressions of Hannibal’s flesh. His fingers gripping the other’s bicep with bruising force as the scent intensifies, hitting him like a freight train. As he rolls his tongue, coating the blood inside his mouth, he feels Hannibal’s regulated pulse against the crook of his elbow as nails dig further to elicit any kind of response. Gentle at first to feel the hard skin beneath him, then growing more ravenous as he gives no thought to how severely he was marking his twin. 


End file.
